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HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS 









: OTERIC#MfV\K 



With illustrations 

By GORDON BROWNE. 



New York: 

W. L. ALLISON CO., 
Publishers. 

1897. 


T Z1 C 

f'i A Y 






32270 


o; 

Ujyy 


By the same Author. 


Bnc, or Xlttle bis 3Uttle: 

A TALE OF ROSLYN SCHOOL. 

Illustrated by Gordon Browne. 


JULIAN HOME : A Tale of College Life. 






* 





























TO THE 


SACRED MEMORY 

OF ONE IN HEAVEN 

THESE PAGES 

WHICH FAINTLY STRIVE TO INCULCATE 
THE COURAGE, THE VIRTUE, AND THE TENDERNESS 

OF WHICH 

THAT LIFE WAS SO SHINING AN EXAMPLE 
ARE DEDICATED 

WITH AFFECTION TOO STRONG FOR WORDS 


WITH REGRET TOO DEEP FOR TEARS 








CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Walter's Home 9 

II. St. Winifred’s 14 

III. New Boys 18 

IV. Friends and Foes 27 

V. School Troubles 38 

VI. A Burst of Wilfulness 50 

VII. Vogue la Galere 59 

VIII. The Burnt Manuscript 69 

IX. Penitence 79 

X. Uphill wards 89 

XI. Happier Hours 105 

XII. My Brother’s Keeper 114 

XIII. Daubeny 125 

XIV. Appenfell 134 

XV. In the Clouds 143 

XVI. On the Razor 151 

XVII. The Good Resolve 162 

XVIII. The Martyr-student 167 

XIX. The School Bell 176 

XX. Farewell 185 

XXI. Kenrick’s Home 191 

XXII. Birds of a Feather 205 

XXIII. A Broken Friendship 218 

XXIV. Eden’s Troubles 227 

XXV. To the Rescue 237 

XXVI. A Turbulent School Meeting 245 

XXVII. The Monitors 258 

XXVIII. Falling Away 268 

XXIX. Water’s Holidays 275 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXX. Old and New Faces 282 

XXXI. Among the Noelites 293 

XXXII. Disenchantment 306 

XXXIII. Martyrdom 319 

XXXIY. A Conspiracy Foiled 331 

XXX Y. The Final Fracas 342 

XXXVI. In the Depths 357 

XXXVII. The Eeconciliation and the Loss 376 

XXXVIII. The Stupor Broken 389 

XXXIX. On the Dark Sea 406 

XL. What the Sea Gave Up 414 

L’envoi 421 



NINETEENTH EDITION. 

The school story of St. Winifred’s was written 
thirty years ago, in 1863. In the first instance it was 
published anonymously, as I did not wish attention to 
be diverted from other work in which I was then 
engaged. The authorship was, however, immediately 
conjectured, and my name was put on the title-page of 
the second or third edition. Like my earlier stories of 
Eric and Julian Home, St. Winifred's was written 
with the simple desire to be helpful. The fact that, 
with all their many imperfections, these youthful 
writings still live, — that I have been thanked for them 

by many, who have written to me from every quarter 
vii 


yin 


PREFACE. 


in which the English language is spoken, — that I still 
am thanked for them, both by boys and by the parents 
of boys, who tell me of the good which they gained 
from them in their earlier years ; — these facts make 
me gratefully hopeful that these little efforts of my 
earlier days were not wholly in vain. The first edition 
of Eric was published in 1858; it has now reached a 
sale of 60,000. The present edition of St. Winifred's 
is the nineteenth, and the sale will enter its forty-third 
thousand. I trust that these books will continue to 
live so long as they prove to be useful. If ever they 
should cease to be so, I shall be the first to desire that 
they should fall into oblivion. 


October, 1894. 


F. W. Farrar, 


ST. WINIFRED’S 


CHAPTER THE FIRST. 

Walter’s home. 

The merry homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 

What gladsome looks of household love 
Meet in the ruddy light ! — Mrs. Hemans. 

“Good-bye, Walter; good-bye, Walter dear! good- 
bye ; ” and the last note of this chorus was “Dood-bye,” 
from a blue-eyed, fair-haired girl of two years, as 
Walter disengaged his arms from his mother’s neck, 
and sprang into the carriage which had already been 
waiting a quarter of an hour to convey him and his 
luggage to the station. 

It is the old, old story : Mr. Evson was taking his 
son to a large public school, and this was the first time 
that Walter had left home. Nearly every father who 
deigns to open this little book has gone through the 
scene himself : and he and his sons will know from 
personal experience the thoughts, and sensations, and 
memories which occupied the minds of Walter Evson 
and his father, as the carriage drove through the 
garden gate and the village street, bearing the eldest 
boy of the young family from the sacred and quiet 
shelter of a loving home, to a noisy and independent 
life among a number of strange and young companions. 

If you have ever stood on the hill from which 


10 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


Walter caught a last glimpse of the home he was 
leaving, and waved his final farewell to his mother, 
you are not likely to have forgotten the scene which 
was then spread before your eyes. On the right-hand 
side, the low hills, covered with firs, rise in gentle 
slopes one over the other, till they reach the huge 
green shoulder of a mountain, around whose summits 
the clouds are generally weaving their awful and ever- 
changing diadem. To the left, between the road and 
a lower range of wooded undulations, is a deep and 
retired glen, through which a mountain stream babbles 
along its hurried course, tumbling sometimes in a 
noisy cataract and rushing wildly through the rough 
boulder stones which it has carried from the heights, 
or deepening into some quiet pool, bright and smooth 
as glass, on the margin of which the great purple 
loosestrife and the long leaves of lady-fern bend down 
as though to gaze at their own reflected beauty. In 
front, and at your feet, opens a rich valley, which is 
almost filled as far as the roots of the mountains by a 
lovely lake. Beside this lake the white houses of a 
little village cluster around the elevation on which 
the church and churchyard stand; while on either 
shore, rising around the fir groves that overshadow the 
first swellings of the hills, are a few sequestered villas, 
commanding a prospect of rare beauty, and giving a 
last touch of interest to the surrounding view. 

In one of these houses — the one with the crowded 
gables not a hundred feet above the lake, opposite to 
which you see the swans pluming their wings in the 
sunlight, and the green boat in its little boat-house — 
lived the hero of our story ; and no boy could have had 
a dearer or lovelier home. Ilis father,' Mr. Evson, was 
a man in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, 
who, having no regular occupation, had chosen for 
himself this quiet retreat, and devoted all his time and 
care to the education of his family, and the ordinary 
duties of a country gentleman. 

Walter was the eldest child, a graceful, active, bright- 
eyed boy. Up to this time — and he was now fourteen 
years old — he had had no other teaching but that of 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


11 


his father, and of a tutor, who for the last year had 
lived in the house. His education, therefore, differed 
considerably from that of many boys of his own age, 
and the amount of book knowledge which he had ac- 
quired was small as yet ; but he was full of that intelli- 
gent interest in things most worth knowing which is 
the best and surest guarantee for future progress. 

Let me pause for a moment to relate how a refined 
and simple-hearted gentleman had hitherto brought 
up his young boys. I do not pronounce whether the 
method was right or wrong ; I only describe it as it was ; 
and its success or failure must be inferred from the 
following pages. 

The positive teaching of the young Evsons did not 
begin too early. Till they were ten or twelve years 
old nearly all they did know had come to them either 
intuitively or without any conscious labor. They 
were allowed almost to live in the open air, and nature 
was their wise and tender teacher. Some object was 
invented, if possible, for every walk. Sometimes it 
was to find the shy recesses of the wood where the 
wild strawberries were thickest, or where the white 
violets and the rarest orchis flowers were hid ; some- 
times to climb along the rocky sides of the glen to 
seek the best spot for a rustic meal, and find mossy 
stone and flower-banks for seats and tables near some 
waterfall or pool. 

When they were a little older their father would 
amuse and encourage them until they had toiled up 
even to the very summit of all the nearest hills, and 
there they would catch the fresh breeze which blew 
from the far-off sea, or gaze wonderingly at the sum- 
mer lightning flashing behind the rocky peaks, or watch, 
with many playful fancies, the long gorgeous confla- 
gration of the summer sunset. And in such excur- 
sions their father or mother would teach them without 
seeming to teach them, until they were thoroughly 
familiar with the names and properties of all the com- 
monest plants, and eagerly interested to secure for 
their little collections, or to plant in their gardens, the 
different varieties of all the wild flowers that were 


12 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


found about their home. Or, again, when they sat out in 
the garden, or wandered back in the autumn twilight 
from some gypsy party, they were taught to recognize 
the stars and planets, until Mars and Jupiter, Orion 
and Cassiopeia, the Pleiads and the Northern Crown, 
seemed to look down upon them like old and beloved 
friends. 

It was easy, too, and pleasant, to teach them to 
love and to treat tenderly all li ving things — to observe 
the little black-eyed squirrel without disturbing him 
while he cracked his nuts ; to wjatch the missel-thrush’s 
nest till the timid bird had learned to sit there fear- 
lessly, and not flit away at their approach ; and to visit 
the haunts of the moor-hen without causing any con- 
sternation to her or her little black velvet progeny. 
Visitors who stayed at the house were always delighted 
to see how all creatures seemed to trust the children ; 
how the canary would carol in its cage when they came 
into the room ; how the ponies would come trotting 
to the boys across the field, and the swans float up 
and plume their mantling wings, expecting food and 
caresses, whenever they came in sight. 

The lake was a source of endless amusement to them ; 
summer and winter they might have been seen bath- 
ing in its waters till they were bold swimmers, or 
lying to read their books in the boat under the shade 
of the trees, or rowing about till the little boy of six 
years was allowed to paddle himself alone to the other 
side, and even when the waves were rough, and the 
winds high, the elder ones were not afraid to venture out. 
In short, they were healthy and manly mountain-boys, 
with all their senses admirably exercised, and their 
powers of observation so well trained, that they some- 
times amazed their London cousins by pointing to some 
falcon poised far off above its prey, which was but a 
speck to less practised eyes, or calling attention to 
the sweetness of some wood-bird’s note, indistinguish- 
able to less practised ears. 

Even in such lessons as these they would have made 
but little progress if they had not been trained in the 
nursery to be hardy, modest, truthful, unselfish, and 


ST. WINIFRETTS. 


13 


obedient. This work liad effectually been done when 
alone it can be effectually done, in the earliest child- 
hood, when the sweet and plastic nature may acquire 
for all that is right and good the powerful aid of habit, 
before the will and the passions are fully conscious of 
their dangerous and stubborn power. 

Let no one say that I have been describing some 
youthful prodigies. There are thousands such as I 
describe in all happy and well-ordered English homes ; 
there might be thousands more if parents spent a more 
thoughtful care upon the growth of their children ; 
there will be many, many thousands more as the 
world, in the “ rich dawn of an ampler day, ” in the 
gradual yet noble progress of social and moral improve- 
ment, becomes purer and holier, and more like Him who 
came to be the ideal of the loftiest yet the lowliest, 
of the most clear-sighted yet the most loving, of the 
most happy and yet the most humble manhood. 



“ GOOD-BYE, WALTER.” 


CHAPTER THE SECOND. 

st. winifked’s. 

Gay Hope is theirs by Fancy led, 

Less pleasing when possess’d, 

The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast. — Gray. 

Walter’s destination was the school of St. Wini- 
fred. St. Winifred’s School stands by the seaside, 
on the shores of a little bay embraced and closed in 
by a range of hills, whose sweeping semicircle is only 
terminated on either side by the lofty cliffs which, in 
some places, are fringed at the base by a margin of 
sand and shingle, and in others descend with sheer 
precipices into the restless surf. Owing to the moun- 
tainous nature of the country, the railroad cannot 
approach within a distance of five miles, and to reach 
the school you must drive through the dark groves 
which cover the lower shoulder of one of the surround- 
14 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


15 


ing mountains. When you reach the summit of this 
ascent, the bay of St. Winifred lies before you; that 
line of white houses a quarter of a mile from the shore 
is the village, and the large picturesque building of 
old gray stone, standing in the angle where the little 
river reaches the sea, is St. Winifred’s School. 

The carriage stopped at the grand Norman archway 
of the court. The school porter — the Famulus as 
they classically called him — a fine-looking man, whose 
honest English face showed an amount of thought and 
refinement above his station, opened the gate, and, 
consigning Walter’s play-box and portmanteau to 
one of the school servants, directed Mr. Evson across 
the court and along some cloisters to the house of 
Dr. Lane, the head-master. The entering of Walter’s 
name on the school books was soon accomplished, and 
he was assigned as private pupil to Mr. Robertson, one 
of the tutors. Dr. Lane then spoke a word of encour- 
agement to the young stranger, and he walked back 
with his father across the court to the gate, where the 
carriage was still waiting to take Mr. Evson to meet 
the next train. 

“ Please let us walk up to the top of the hill, father,” 
said Walter ; “I shan’t be wanted till tea-time, and I 
needn’t bid good-bye to you here.” 

Mr. Evson was as little anxious as Walter to hasten 
the parting. They had never been separated before. 
Mr. Evson could look back for the rare period of thir- 
teen years, during which they had enjoyed, by God’s 
blessing, an almost uninterrupted happiness. He had 
begun life again with his young children ; he could 
thoroughly sympathize alike with their thoughts and 
with their thoughtlessness, and by training them in a 
manner at once wise and firm, he had been spared the 
greater part of that anxiety and disappointment which 
generally spring from our own mismanagement. He 
deeply loved, and was heartily proud of his eldest boy. 
There is no exaggeration in saying that Walter had 
all the best gifts which a parent could desire. There 
was something very interesting in his appearance, and 
very winning in his modest and graceful manners. It 


16 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


was impossible to see him and not be struck with his 
fine open face, and the look of fearless and noble inno- 
cence in his deep blue eyes. 

It was no time for moral lecture or formal advice. 
Many seem to think that a few Polonius-like apoph- 
thegms delivered at such a time may be of great im- 
portance. They may be, perhaps, if they be backed up 
and enforced by previous years of silent and self-deny- 
ing example ; otherwise they are like seed sown upon 
a rock, like thistle-down blown by the wind across the 
sea. Mr. Evson spoke to Walter chiefly about home, 
about writing letters, about his pocket-money, his 
amusements, and his studies, and Walter knew well 
beforehand, without any repetitions then, what his 
father wished him to be, and the principles in accord- 
ance with which he had endeavored to mould his 
thoughts and actions. 

The time passed too quickly for them both ; they 
were soon at the top of the hill where the carriage 
awaited them. 

“Good-bye, Walter. God bless you,” said Mr. 
Evson, shaking hands for the last time, and throwing 
deep meaning into those simple words. 

“ Good-bye, father. My best love to all at home,” 
said Walter, trying to speak cheerfully, and struggling 
manfully to repress his rising tears. 

The carriage drove on. Walter watched it out of 
sight, and, turning round, felt that a new phase of his 
life had begun, and that he was miserably alone. It 
was natural that he should shed a few quiet tears as 
he thought of the dear friends with whom he had 
parted, and the four hundred strangers into whose 
society he was about to enter. Yet being brave and 
innocent he feared nothing, and, without any very 
definite religious consciousness, he had a clear and 
vivid sense that One friend was ever with him. 

The emotions of a boy are as transient as they are 
keen, and Walter’s tears were soon dried. As he 
looked round, the old familiar voice of the mountains 
was in his ears. He gazed with the delight of friend- 
ship on their towering summits, and promised himself 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


17 


many an exhilarating climb up their steep sides. And 
now too for the first time — for hitherto he had not 
much noticed the scenery around him — a new voice, 
the great voice of the sea, broke with its grand but 
awful monotony upon his listening ear. As he gazed 
upon the waves, glowing and flashing with the golden 
network of autumnal sunbeams, their beauty seemed 
to dawn upon him like the discovery of a new sense, 
and he determined to stroll down to the beach before 
re-entering the gates of St. Winifred’s. 

He wandered there not only with a boy’s delight, 
but with the delight of a boy whose eyes and ears have 
always been open to the beauty and wonder of the 
outer world, lie longed to have his brother with him 
there. He picked up handfuls of the hard and spark- 
ling sand ; he sent the broad flat pebbles flying over the 
surface, and skimming through the crests of the waves ; 
he half filled his pockets with green and yellow shells, 
and crimson fragments of feathery sea-weed for his 
little sisters ; and he was full of pleasurable excite- 
ment when the great clock of St. Winifred’s, striking 
five, reminded him that he had better go in, and learn 
something, if possible, about the order of his future 
life. 


2 


18 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


CHAPTER THE THIRD. 

NEW BOYS. 

Parolles . — I find my tongue is too foolhardy. 

All's Well that Ends Well, Act iv. Sc. 1. 

The Famulus — “ familiar ” as the boys called him — 
directed Walter across the court to the rooms of his 
housekeeper, who told him about the places where his 
clothes and his play-box would be kept, and showed 
him the dormitory where he was to sleep. She also 
gave him a key of the desk in the great schoolroom, in 
which he might, if he chose, keep his portable property. 
She moreover announced, with some significance, that 
she should be glad to do anything for him which lay 
in her humble power, and that the day after to-morrow 
was her birthday. Walter was a little puzzled as to 
the relevancy of the latter piece of information. He 
learnt it at a subsequent period, when he also discov- 
ered that Mrs. Higgins found it to her interest to have 
periodical birthdays, recurring two or three times at 
least every half-year. The years which must have 
passed over that good lady’s head during Walter’s stay 
at St. Winifred’s — the premature rapidity with which 
old age must have subsequently overtaken her, and the 
vigor which she displayed at so advanced a period of 
life — were something quite extraordinary of their kind. 

Towards the great schoolroom, Walter accordingly 
directed his steps. The key turned out to be quite su- 
perfluous, for the lock of the desk had been broken by 
Walter’s predecessor, who had also left the trace of 
his name, his likeness, and many interesting though 
inexplicable designs and hieroglyphics, with a red-hot 
poker, on the lid. The same gentleman, to judge by 
appearances, must have had a curious entomological 
collection of spiders and earwigs under his protection. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


19 


and had bequeathed to Walter a highly miscellaneous 
legacy of rubbish. Walter contemplated his bequest 
with some dismay, and began busily to dust the inte- 
rior of the. desk, and make it as fit a receptacle as he 
could for his writing-materials and other personal pos- 
sessions. 

While thus engaged he could not help being secretly 



tickled by the proceedings of a group of boys standing 
round the large unlighted stove, and amusing them- 
selves, harmlessly for the most part, with the inex- 
perience and idiosyncrasies of various new-comers. 
After tiring themselves with the freaks of a mad Irish 
boy who had entered into the spirit of his own cross- 
examination with a high sense of buffoonery which re- 
fused to grow ill-tempered, they were now playing on 
the extreme gullibility of a heavy, open-mouthed, bullet 


20 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


headed fellow, named Plumber, from whom the most 
astounding information could extract no greater evi- 
dence of sensation than a little wider stare of the eyes, 
and an unexcited drawl of “ Keally though ?” One of 
the group, named Henderson, a merry-looking boy 
with a ceaseless pleasant twinkle of the eyes, had been 
taxing his own invention to the uttermost without in 
the least exciting Plumber’s credulity. 

“You saw the fellow who let you in at the school 
gates, Plumber?” said Henderson. 

“Yes; I saw some one or other.” 

“But did you notice him particularly ? ” 

“No; I didn’t notice him.” 

“Well, you should have done. That man’s called 
‘ the Familiar.’ Ask any one if he isn’t ? But do you 
know why ? ” 

“No,” said Plumber. 

“It’s because he’s got a familiar spirit which waits 
on him,” said Henderson mysteriously. 

“ Really though ? ” said Plumber, and this time he 
looked so frightened that it was impossible for the rest 
to avoid bursting into a fit of laughter, during which 
Plumber, vaguely comprehending that he was consid- 
ered a very good joke, retired with discomfiture. 

“You fools,” said Henderson; “if you’d only given 
me a little more time I’d have made him believe no end 
of nonsense; and that before being entered he would 
have to sing a song standing on his head. You’ve 
quite spoilt my game by bursting out laughing.” 

“ There’s another new fellow,” said Kenrick, one of 
the group. “ Come here, you new fellow,” called two 
or three of them. 

Walter looked up, thinking that he was addressed, 
but found that the summons was meant for a boy, 
rather good-looking but very slender, whose self-im- 
portant attitude and supercilious look betrayed no 
slight amount of vanity, and who, to the apparent as- 
tonishment of the rest, was surveying the room and its 
appurtenances with a look of great affectation and 
disdain. 

“So you don’t much seem to like the look of St. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


21 


Winifred’s,” said Kenrick to him, as the boy walked 
up with a delicate air. 

“ Not much,” lisped the new boy ; “ everything looks 
so very common.” 

“ Common and unclean to the last degree,” said Hen- 
derson, imitating his manner. 

“And is this the only place you have to sit in?” 

“Oh, by no means,” said Henderson; “each of us 
has a private apartment furnished in crimson and gold, 
according to the simple yet elegant taste of the owner. 
Our meals are there served to us by kneeling domestics 
on little dishes of silver.” 

“ I suppose you intend that for wit,” said the new 
boy languidly. 

“Yes; to do you to wit,” answered Henderson ; “but 
seriously though, that would be a great deal more like 
what you have been accustomed to; wouldn’t it, my 
friend?” 

“ Very much more,” said the boy. 

“ And would you politely favor this company,” said 
Henderson, with obsequious courtesy, “by revealing 
to us your name?” 

“ My name is Howard Tracy.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” said Henderson, with an air of great 
satisfaction, and making a low bow. 

“ I am called Howard Tracy because I am descended 
lineally from both those families.” 

“ My goodness ! are you really ! ” said Henderson, 
clasping his hand in mock transport. “My dear sir, 
you are an honor to your race and country ! you are 
an honor to this school. By Jove, we are proud, sir, 
to have you among us ! ” 

“Perhaps you may not know that my uncle is the 
Viscount St. George,” said Tracy patronizingly. 

“ Is he, though, by George ! ” said Henderson, yawn- 
ing. “ Is that St. George who 

“ ‘ Swinged the dragon, and e’er since 

Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door ? ’ ” 

but finding that the boy’s vanity was too obtuse to be 
amusing any longer, he was about to leave him to the 


22 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


rest, when another of the group, named Jones, caught 
sight of Walter, and called out — 

“ Halloa, here’s a new fellow grinning at the follies 
of his kind. Come here, you dark-haired chap. What’s 
your name ? ” 

“ Evson,” said Walter, quietly approaching them. 

Before getting any fun out of him it was necessary 
to see what kind of hoy he was ; and as Jones hardly 
knew what line to take, he began on the commonest 
and most vulgar tack of catechising him about his 
family and relations. 

“ What’s your father ? ” 

“My father is a gentleman,” said Walter, rather 
surprised at the rudeness of the question. 

“ And where do you live?” 

“ At Semlyn.” 

“And how old are you?” 

“Just fourteen.” 

“And how many sisters have you?” 

Walter rather thought of asking, “ What’s that to 
you ?” but as he saw no particular harm in answering 
the question, and did not want to seem too stiff-backed 
he answered — “ Three.” 

“ And are they very beautiful ? ” 

“ I don’t know; I never asked them. Are yours?” 

This last question was so perfectly quiet and unex- 
pected, and Jones was so evidently discomfited by it, 
that the rest burst into a-roar of laughter, and Hender- 
son said, “You’ve caught a tartar, Jones. You can’t 
drop salt on this bird’s tail. You had better return to 
Plumber, or St. George and the dragon. Here, my 
noble Viscount, what do you think of your coeval ? Is 
he as common as the rest of us?” 

“ I don’t think anything about him, if you mean me 
by Viscount,” said Tracy, peevishly, beginning at last 
to understand that they had been making a fool of 
him. 

“ Quite right, St. George ; he’s beneath your no- 
tice.” 

Tracy ran his hand through his scented hair, as if 
he rather implied that lie was; and being mortified at 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


23 


the contrast between his own credulous vanity and 
Walter’s manly simplicity, and anxious if possible to 
regain his position, he said angrily to Walter — “What 
are you looking at me for ? ” 

Not wishing to be rude, Walter turned away, while 
some one observed “ A cat may look at a king.” 

“Ay, a cat at a king, I grant you,” answered Hen- 
derson ; “ but not a mere son of Eve at any Howard 
Tracy.” 

“You are laughing at me,” said Tracy to Walter, 
again, in a still angrier tone, seeing Walter smile at 
Henderson’s remark. 

“ I’ve not the slightest wish to laugh at you,” said 
Walter. 

“Yes, he has. Shy this at him,” said Jones, putting 
a great bit of orange peel into Tracy’s hand. 

Tracy threw it at Walter, and he without hesitation 
picked it up, and flung it back in Tracy’s face. 

“ A fight ! a fight ! ” shouted the mischief-making 
group, as Tracy made a blind blow at Walter, which 
his antagonist easily parried. 

“ Make him fight you. Challenge him,” said Jones. 
“ Invite him to the milling-ground behind the chapel 
after first school to-morrow morning.” 

“Pistols for two, coffee for four, at eight to-morrow,” 
said Henderson. “ Trample on the Dragon’s tail, some 
one, and rouse him to the occasion. What! he won’t 
come to the scratch ? Alack ! alack 1 

“ What can ennoble fools or cowards? 

Not all the blood of all the Tracys, Dragons, and Howards ! ” 

he continued mischievously, as he saw that Tracy, on 
taking note of Walter’s compact figure, showed signs 
of declining the combat. 

“ Hush, Henderson,” said Kenrick, one of the group 
who had taken no part in the talk ; “it’s a shame to 
be setting two new fellows fighring their first even- 
ing.” 

But Henderson’s last remark had been too much for 
Tracy. “Will you fight?” he said, walking up to 


24 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


Waiter with reddening cheeks. For Tracy had been 
to school before, and was not wholly a novice in the 
ways of boys. 

“Certainly not,” said Walter coolly, to everybody’s 
great surprise. 

“ What ! the other chap showing the white feather 
too. All the new fellows are cowards it seems this 
time,” said Jones. “ This’ll never do. Pitch into him 
Tracy.” 

“ Stop,” said Kenrick ; “ let’s hear first why he 
won’t fight ? ” 

“Because I see no occasion to,” said Walter; “and 
because, in the second place, I never could fight in cold 
blood ; and because, in the third place ” 

“ Well, what in the third place,” said Kenrick, in- 
terested to observe Walter’s hesitation. 

“In the third place,” said Walter, “I don’t say it 
from conceit, but that boy’s no match for me.” 

To any one who glanced at the figures of the two 
boys this was obvious enough, although Walter was a 
year the younger of the two. The rest began to re- 
spect Walter accordingly as a sensible little man, but 
Tracy was greatly offended by the last remark, and 
Jones, who was a bully and had a grudge against 
Walter for baffling his impertinence, exclaimed, “Don’t 
you be afraid, Tracy. I’ll back you. Give him some- 
thing to heat his cold blood.” 

Fired at once by taunts and encouragements, Tracy 
did as he was bid, and struck Walter on the face. The 
boy started angrily, and at first seemed as if he meant 
to return the blow with compound interest, but sud- 
denly changing his intention, he seized Tracy round 
the waist, and in spite of all kicking and struggling, 
fairly dragged the humiliated descendant of the How- 
ards and Tracys to a far corner of the room, where, 
amid a shout of laughter, he deposited him with the 
laconic suggestion, “ Don’t you be a fool.” 

Walter’s blood was now up, and thinking that he 
might as well show, from the very first that he was 
not to be bullied, or made a butt with impunity, he 
walked straight to the stove, and looking full at Jones 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


25 


(who had inspired him already with strong disgust), 
he said, “ You called me a coward just now; I’m not a 
coward, though I don’t like fighting for nothing. I’m 
not a bit afraid of you, though you forced that fellow to 
hit me just now.” 

“ Aren’t you ? Saucy young cub ! Then take that,” 
said Jones, enforcing the remark with a box on the 
ear. 

“And you take that,” 'said Walter, returning the 
compliment with as much energy as if he had been 
playing at the game of Gif es welter. 

Jones, astonished beyond measure, sprang forward, 
clenched his two fists, squared, and blustered with 
great demonstrativeness. He was much Walter’s 
senior, and was utterly taken by surprise at his au- 
dacity, but he seemed in no hurry to avenge the in- 
sult. 

“Well,” said Walter, heaving with indignation, 
“ why don’t you hit me again?” 

Jones looked at his firm and determined little as- 
sailant with some alarm, slowly tucked up the sleeves of 
his coat, turned white and reel, and — didn’t return the 
blow. The tea-bell beginning to ring at that moment 
gave him a convenient excuse for breaking off the 
altercation. lie told his friends that he was on the 
point of thrashing Walter when the bell rang, but 
that he thought it a shame to fight a new fellow ; — 
“and in cold blood too,” he added, adopting Walter’s 
language, but not his sincerity. 

“ Don’t call me a coward again then,” said Walter 
to him as he turned away. 

“Isay, Evson, you’re a regular brick, a regular 
stunner,” said Kenrick, delighted, as he showed Wal tex- 
tile way to the Hall where the boys had tea. “ That 
fellow Jones is no end of a bully, and he won’t be 
quite so big in future. You’ve taken him down a 
great many pegs.” 

“I say, Kenrick,” shouted Henderson after them, 
“I bet you five to one I know what you’re saying to 
the new fellow.” 

“ I bet you don’t,” said Kenrick, laughing. 


26 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


“ You’re saying to him, ‘ A sudden thought strikes 
me; let’s swear an eternal friendship.’” 

“Then you’re quite out,” answered Kenrick. “I 
was saying come and sit next me at tea.” 

“ And go shares in jam,” added Henderson ; “ exactly 
what I said, only in other words.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


27 


CHAPTER THE FOURTH. 

FRIENDS AND FOES. 

“ He who hath a thousand friends hath not one friend to spare, 

And he who hath one enemy shall meet him everywhere.” 

Already Walter had got some one to talk to, some 
one to know ; for in spite of Ken rick’s repudiation of 
Henderson’s jest, he felt already that he had discovered 
a boy with whom he should soon be friends. It doesn’t 
matter how he had discovered it ; it was by animal 
magnetism ; it was by some look in Kenrick’s eyes ; 
it was by his light-hearted ness ; it was by the mingled 
fire and refinement of his face which spoke of a wilful 
and impetuous, yet also of a generous and noble 
nature. Already he felt a sense of ease and pleasure 
in the certainty that Kenrick — evidently no cipher 
among his schoolfellows — was inclined to like him, 
and show him the ways of the school. 

They went into a large hall, where the four hundred 
had their meals. They sat at a number of tables ar- 
ranged breadthwise across the hall ; twenty or thirty 
sat at each table, and either a master or a monitor (as 
the sixteen upper boys were called) took his place at 
the head of it. 

“ Now, mind you don’t begin to smoke,” said Hender- 
son, as Walter went in, and found most of the boys 
already seated. 

“ Smoke ? ” said Walter, taking it for a bit of good 
advice ; “ do fellows smoke in Hall ? I never have 
smoked.” 

“ Why, you’re smoking now,” said Henderson, as 
Walter, entering among the crowd of strange faces 


28 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and meeting so many pairs of eyes, began to blush a 
little. 

“Don’t tease him, Flip,” said Kenrick; “smoking is 
the name fellows give to blushing, Evson ; and if they 
see you given to blushing, they’ll stare at you for the 
fun of seeing the color mount up in your cheeks.” 

Accordingly, as he sat down, he saw that numerous 
eyes were turned upon him and upon Tracy, who hap- 
pened to sit at the same table. Tracy, unaccustomed 
to such very narrow scrutiny, blushed all over; and, as 
he in vain looked up and down, this way and that, his 
cheeks grew hotter and hotter, and he moved about in 
the most uneasy way, to the great amusement of his 
many tormentors, until at last his eyes subsided finally 
into his teacup, from which he did not again venture 
to raise them until tea was over. But Walter was at 
once up to the trick, and felt thoroughly obliged to 
Henderson and Kenrick for telling him of it. So he 
waited till he saw that a good dozen fellows were all 
intently staring at him ; and then looking up very 
simply and naturally, he met the gaze of two or three 
of them steadily in succession, and stared them out of 
countenance with a quiet smile. This turned the 
laugh against them ; and he heard the remark, that he 
was “up to snuff, and no mistake.” JSTo one ever tried 
to make Walter smoke again, but for some time it used 
to be a regular joke to pass round word at tea-time, 
“ Let’s make Tracy smoke ; ” and as Tracy always did 
smoke till he got thoroughly used to it, he was generally 
glad when tea-time was over. 

In spite of Henderson, who poked fun at them all 
tea-time (till he saw that he really embarrassed them, 
and then he desisted), Kenrick sat by Walter, and 
took him more or less under his protection ; for an 
“ old boy ” can always patronize a new-comer at first, 
even if they are of the same age. 

From Kenrick Walter learnt, rather to his dismay, 
that he really would have no place to sit in except the 
big school-room, which he would share with some fifty 
others, and that he would be placed in a dormitory 
with at least five or six besides himself. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 29 

“Have you been examined yet?” asked Ken- 
rick. 

“No ; but Dr. Lane asked me what books I had read ; 
and he told me that I was to go and take my chance in 
Mr. Paton’s form. What form is that?” 

“It’s what we call the Virgil form. Have you ever 
read Virgil ? ” 

“ No ; at least only a few easy bits.” 

“1 wish you joy, then.” 

“ Why ? what sort of a fellow is Mr. Paton?” 

“ Mr. Paton ? he’s not a man at all, he’s a machine ; 
he’s the wheel of a mill ; he’s a cast-iron automaton ; 
he’s ” 

“ The abomination of desolation,” observed Hender- 
son, who had caught a fragment of the conversation; 
“ I’m in his form too, worse luck ! ” 

“ Hush ! shut up, Henderson, and don’t be profane,” 
said Kenrick. “Well, Evson, you’ll soon find out 
what Paton’s like ; anything but 4 a patine of bright 
gold ’ at any rate.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! turn him out for his bad pun,” said Hen- 
derson, hitting him with a pellet of bread ; for which 
offence he immediately received “ fifty lines ” from the 
master at the other end of the table. 

“ Don’t abuse Paton,” said a boy named Daubeny, 
which name Henderson had long ago contracted into 
Dubbs ; “ I always found him a capital master to be 
under, and really very kind.” 

“Oh, you; yes,” answered Kenrick, “if we were all 
gifted with your mouse-like stillness in school, my dear 
old Dubbs——” 

“ And your metallic capacity of grind, my dear old 
Dubbs,” added Henderson. 

“ And your ostrich-like digestion of crabbed rules, 
my dear old Dubbs ; why then,” said Kenrick, “ we 
should all be boys after Paton’s heart.” 

“ Or Paton’s pattern,” suggested Henderson ; so it 
was now Ken rick’s turn to shudder at a miserable at- 
tempt at a pun, and return Henderson’s missile, where- 
upon he got a hundred lines, which made him pull a 
yery long face. 


30 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ Who’s to be your tutor, Evson ? ” he asked, after 
this interlude. 

“ I suppose you’re going to pick him to pieces, now,” 
said Daubeny, smiling ; “ don’t you believe half they 
say of him, Evson.” 

“ Depends on who he is, O virtuous Dubbs,” said 
Henderson ; “ his end shall be ‘ pieces,’ as Punch says, 
if he deserves it.” 

“ He told me I was to be Mr. Robertson’s pupil,” said 
Walter. 

“ Hum-m ! ” observed Kenrick. 

“ Why, what sort of a person is he ? ” 

“ Some of his pups detest him, others adore him.” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, if you’re sharp and successful, and polite, and 
gentlemanly, and jolly, and all that sort of thing, he’ll 
like you very much, and be exceedingly kind to you ; 
but if you are lazy, or mischievous, or stupid, or at all 
a pickle, he’ll ignore you, snub you, won’t speak to 
you. I wish you’d been in the same pupil-room with 
me.” 

“ Who’s your tutor, then ? ” 

“Percival there, the master who is chatting and 
laughing with those monitors. He’s a regular brick. 
-XivOos £<ttiv as we say in Greek,” said Kenrick. “ Halloa ! 
tea’s over.” 

“And you’ve been chattering so much that the new 
fellow’s had none,” said Henderson, as a bell rang and 
one of the monitors read a short Latin grace. 

The boys streamed out, and Kenrick helped his new 
friend to unpack his books and other treasures, and 
put them in his desk for which they ordered a new 
lock. The rest of the evening was occupied witli 
“Evening Work,” a time during which all the boys 
below a certain form sat in the schoolroom, and pre- 
pared their lessons for the next day, while a master 
occupied the desk to superintend and keep order. As 
other boys who were in the same form with himself 
were doing no work, Walter did not suppose that any 
work would be expected of him the next morning, and 
he therefore occupied his time in writing a long letter 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


31 



home. When this was over he began talking to Hen- 
derson, of whom lie had a thousand questions to ask. 
Henderson’s chief amusement seemed to consist in 
chaffing everybody, yet everybody seemed to regard 
him as a friend. At nine a bell rang, the whole school 
went to chapel, where a short evening service was held, 
and then all the higher forms, and the boys who had sepa- 
rate rooms, went to bed. As W alter lay down to sleep, 
he felt at least a century older than he had done that 
morning. Everything was marvellously new to him, 
but on the whole he was inclined to take a bright view 
of things. Two of the things which had happened to 
him gave him special delight; the sight of the sea, and 
the happy dawn— for as such he regarded it— of a 
genuine hearty boyish 
friendship, both with Hen- 
derson and Kenrick. When 
the gas was turned off, tired 


out with his journey and his excitement, he quickly fell 
asleep. 

And, falling asleep, he at once passed into the land 
of dreams. lie was out on the sea with Kenrick and 
Henderson in a row-boat, and all three of them were 
fishing. First there was a pull at Henderson’s line, 
and, tugging it up, he caught not a fish, but Jones, who, 
after a few floun derings, lay down in the fish-basket. 
As this did not in the least surprise any of them, and 
excited no remark whatever, they set to work again, 
and Kenrick had a bite this time, which proved to be 
Howard Tracy, whom they laid quietly in the bottom 


32 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


of the boat, Jones assisting. The third time Walter 
himself had a tug, and was in the act of hauling up 
Dubbs, when he became conscious that the boat was 
rocking very violently, and he felt rather surprised 
that he was not sea-sick. This seemed to give a new 
current to his thoughts, for all of a sudden he was out 
riding with some one, and his horse began to rear 
in the most uncomfortable manner, right on his hind 
legs. He kept his seat manfully, — but no ! that last 
rear was too much, and, suddenly waking, he was at 
once aware that his bed was rising and falling in a 
series of heavy shakes and bumps, whereby he was 
nearly flung off the mattress. He instantly guessed 
the cause, for, indeed, Kenrick had given him a hint 
of such a possibility. He knew that some one, wishing 
to frighten him, had got under the bed, and was heaving 
it up and down with his back. All that he had noticed 
when he undressed, was that there were several big 
fellows in the dormitory, and he knew that the room 
had rather a bad reputation for disorder and bullying. 

Being a strong little fellow, brave as a lion, and very 
active, Walter was afraid of no one, so springing up 
during a momentary cessation of the mysterious up- 
heavals, he instantly made a dash under the bed, and 
seized some one by the leg. The leg kicked violently, 
and as a leg is a particularly strong limb, it succeeded 
in disengaging itself from Walter’s hands, not, how- 
ever, till it had left a slipper as a trophy ; and with 
this slipper Walter pursued a dim white figure, which 
he could just see scuttling away through the darkness 
to the other side of the room. This figure he overtook 
just in time to give it some resounding smacks with 
the sole of the slipper ; when the figure clutched a 
counterpane off the nearest bed, flung it over Walter, 
and made good an escape, while Walter was entangled, 
Agamemnon-like, in the voluminous folds. Walter, 
however, still kept possession of the slipper, and was 
determined next morning to discover the owner. He 
knew that it was probably some bigger fellow who had 
been playing this game, and his common-sense told 
him that it was best to take it good-humoredly as a 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


33 


joke, and yet at the same time to make it as little 
pleasant as possible for the perpetrator, even if he got 
thrashed himself. A holly or a joker of practical 
jokes is not likely to do things which cause himself a 
certain amount of discomfort, even if he succeeds in 
causing a still greater amount to some one else. 

Walter cared very little for this adventure. It cer- 
tainly annoyed him a little, and it showed him that 
some of the others in his dormitory must be more or 
less brutes, if they could find it amusing to break the 
sleep and play on the fears of a new boy the very 
night of his arrival among them. But he thought no 
more about it, and was quite determined that it should 
not happen often. 

Far different was the case with poor little Arthur 
Eden, another new boy — who, as Walter had observed, 
occupied the bed next to him. He had been roused 
from his first sweet sleep in the same way, about the 
same time as Walter. But no one had prepared him 
for this annoyance, and as he was a very timid child, 
it filled him with terror; he was even so terrified that 
he did not know what it was. He lay quite still, not 
daring to speak, or make a sound, only clinging to his 
mattress with both hands in an agony of dread. He 
was already worn and bewildered with the events of 
the day. He had fallen among the Philistines ; at the 
very moment of his arrival he had got into bad hands, 
the hands of boys who made sport of his weakness, 
corrupted his feelings, and lacerated his heart. He 
was very young — -a mere child of twelve — and in the 
innocence of his simplicity he had unreservedly an- 
swered all their questions, and prattled to them about 
his home, about his twin sister, about nearly all his 
cherished secrets. In that short space of time he had 
afforded materials enough for the coarse jeers of the 
brutal, and the poignant ridicule of the cruel, for many 
a long day. Something of this derision had begun al- 
ready, and he had found no secret place to hide his 
tears. That they would call him a milksop, a molly 
coddle, and all kinds of horrid names, he knew, and 
he had tried manfully to bear up under persecution. 

3 


34 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


It was not until after many hot and silent drops had 
relieved the fever of his overwrought brain, that sleep 
had come to him ; and now it was broken thus. 

O parents and guardians — why, knowing all that 
you must know, do you send such children as this to 
school? Eden’s mother, indeed, had opposed the step, 
but his guardian (for the boy’s father was dead), seeing 
that he was being spoilt at home, and that he was 
naturally a shrinking and timid lad, had urged that 
he should be sent to St. Winifred’s, with some vague 
notion of making a man of him. He might as well 
have thrown a piece of Brussels lace into the fire with 
the intention of changing it into open ironwork. The 
proper place for little Eden would have been some 
country parsonage, where care and kindliness might 
have gradually helped him, as he grew older, to acquire 
the faculties which he had not; whereas, in this case, 
a public school only impaired for a time in that weak 
body the bright yet delicate qualities which he had. 

The big, clumsy ne’er-do-well of a boy, Cradock by 
name, who w T as choking with secret laughter as he 
tilted little Eden’s bed — leaving a pause of frightful 
suspense now and then to let him recover breath and 
realize his situation — was as raw and ill-trained a 
fellow as possible, but he had nothing in him wilfully 
or diabolically wicked. If he had been similarly treated 
he would have broken into a great guffaw, and emptied 
his water-jug over the intruder; and yet if he could 
have seen the new boy at that moment, he would have 
seen that young face — only meant as yet for the smiles 
of childhood — white with an almost idiotic terror, and 
he would have caught a staring and meaningless look 
in the glassy eyes which were naturally so bright and 
blue. But he really did not know — being merely an 
overgrown stupid fellow— the mischief he was doing, 
and the absolutely horrible torment that his jest (?) 
was inflicting. 

. Finding that his joltings produced no apparent effect, 
and thinking that Eden might, by some strange som- 
nolence peculiar to new boys, sleep through it all, he 
tilted the bed a little too high, and then indeed a wild 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


35 


shriek rang through the room as the mattress and 
clothes tumbled right over the foot of the bed, and 
flung the child violently on the floor. Fortunately the 
heap of bed-clothes prevented him from being much 
hurt, and Cradock had just time to pick him up and 
huddle him into bed again, and jump back into his own 
bed, when the lamp of one of the masters, who had 
been attracted by Eden’s cry, appeared through the 
door. The master, finding all quiet, and having come 
from a distant room, supposed that his ears had deceived 
him, or that the cry was some accidental noise outside 
the building. lie merely walked round the room, and 
seeing Eden’s bed-clothes rather tumbled, kindly helped 
the trembling child to replace them in a more comfort- 
able order, and left the room. 

“ I say, that’s quite enough for one night,” said the 
voice of one of the boys, when the master had disap- 
peared. “ You new fellows can go to sleep. Nobody’ll 
tease you again to-night.” The speaker was Franklin, 
rather a scapegrace in some respects, but a boy of no 
unkindly nature. 

The light and the noise had revealed to Walter 
something of what must have taken place. In his own 
case, he cared very little for the assurance that he 
would not be molested again that night, feeling quite 
sure that he could hold his own against any one, and 
that his former enemy at any rate would not be likely 
to assault him a second time. But he was very, very 
glad for poor little Eden’s sake, having caught a mo- 
mentary glimpse of his scared and pitiable look. 

Walter could not sleep for a long time ; not till long 
after he heard from the regular breathings of the others 
that they were all in deep slumber. For there were 
sounds which came from Eden’s bed which disturbed 
his heart with pity. His feelings bled for the poor little 
fellow, so young and fresh from home, a new comer 
like himself, but evidently so little accustomed to this 
roughness and so little able to protect his own interests. 
For a long time into the night he heard the poor child 
crying and sobbing to himself, though he was clearly 
trying to stifle the sound. At last Walter could stand 


36 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


it no longer, and feeling sure that the rest were sound 
asleep, he whispered in his kindest tone, for he didn’t 
know his neighbor’s name — 

“ I say, you little new fellow.” 

The sound of sobbing was hushed for a moment but 
the boy seemed afraid to answer; so Walter said 
again — 

“ Are you awake ? ” 

“Yes,” said a weak, childish voice. 

“ Don’t be afraid ; I’m a new fellow, too. Tell me 
your name.” 

“Eden,” he whispered, tremulously, though reas- 
sured by the kindly tone of voice. “IIusli! hush! 
you’ll awake some one.” 

“No, I won’t,” said Walter; “here I’ll come and 
speak to you;” and stepping noiselessly out of bed, 
he whispered in Eden’s ear, ‘ Never mind, my poor 
little fellow; don’t be frightened, the boy didn’t mean 
to hurt you ; he was only shoving your bed up and 
down for a joke. Some one did the same to me, so I 
jumped up and licked him with a slipper.” 

“ But I got so frightened. Oh, do you think they’ll 
do it again to-night?” 

“No, certainly not again to-night,” said Walter, 
“they’re all asleep; and if any one does it again 
another night, you must just slip out of bed and not 
mind it. It doesn’t hurt.” 

“Thank you,” whispered Eden ; “you’re very kind, 
and nobody else has been kind to me here. Will you 
tell me your name?” 

“My name’s Walter Evson. Do you know your 
voice and look remind me of my little brother. There,” 
he said, tucking him up in bed, “ now good-night, and 
go to sleep.” 

The little fellow pressed Walter’s hand hard, said 
good-night, and soon forgot his misery in a sleep of 
pure weariness. I do not think that lie would have 
slept at all that night, but for the comforting sense 
that he had found, to lean upon, a stronger nature and 
a stronger character than his own. Walter heard him 
breathing peacefully, and then he too fell asleep, and 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


37 


neither woke nor dreamt (that he was aware of), until 
half-past seven the next morning, when a servant 
roused the hoys by ringing a large hand-bell in their 
ears. 



38 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


CHAPTER THE FIFTH. 

SCHOOL TROUBLES. 

The sorrows of thy youthful day 
Shall make thee wise in coming years , 

The brightest rainbows ever play 
Above the fountains of our tears. — Mack ay. 

Walter jumped up and began to dress at once ; 
Eden, still looking pale and frightened, soon followed 
his example, and recognized him with a smile of grat- 
itude. None of the other five boys who occupied the 
room thought of stirring until the chapel bell began 
to ring, which left them the ample space of a quarter 
of an hour for their orisons, ablutions, and all other 
necessary preparations ! 

Walter, who was now half-dressed, glanced at them 
as they got up, to discover the owner of the slipper, 
which he still kept in his possession. He watched for 
the one-sandalled enemy as eagerly as Pelias may be 
supposed to have done. First Jones tumbled out of 
bed, not even deigning a surly recognition, but Jones 
had his right complement of slippers. Then two other 
fellows, named Anthony and Franklin, not quite so 
big as Jones; their slippers were all right. Then 
Cradock, who looked a little shyly at Eden, and, after 
a while, told him that he was only playing a joke the 
night before, and was sorry for having frightened him ; 
and last, Harpour, the biggest of the lot. Ilarpour 
was one of those fellows who are to be found in every 
school, and who are always dangerous characters : a 
huge boy, very low down in the forms, very strong, 
very stupid in work, rather good-looking, generally 
cut by the better sort, unredeemed by any natural 
taste or accomplishment, wholly without influence 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


39 


except among little boys (whom he alternately bullied 
and spoilt), and only kept at school by his friends, 
because they were rather afraid of him, and did not 
quite know what to do with him. They called it 
“ keeping him out of mischief,” but the mischief he 
did at school was a thousand-fold greater than any 
which he could have done elsewhere ; for, except at 
school, he would have been comparatively powerless 
to do any positive harm. 

By the exhaustive process of reasoning, Walter had 
already concluded that Harpour must have been his 
nocturnal disturber; and, accordingly, after thrusting 
a foot into a slipper, Harpour began to exclaim, “ Halloa ! 
where’s my other slipper ? Confound it, I shall be late ; 

I can’t dress ; where’s my other slipper?” 

Wishing to leave him without escape from the ne- 
cessity of betraying himself to have been the author of 
last night’s raid, Walter made no sign, until Harpour, 
who had not any time to lose, said to him — 

“Hi! you new chap, have you got my slipper?” 

“ I’ve got a slipper,” said Walter blandly. 

“The deuce you have. Then give it here, this 
minute.” 

“I captured it off some one’s leg, who was under my 
bed last night,” said Walter, giving it into Harpour’ s 
hand. 

“ The deuce you did ! ” 

“ Yes ; and I smacked the fellow with it, as I will do 
again, if he comes again.” 

“ The deuce you will ! Then take that for your 
impudence,” said Harpour, intending to bring down . 
the slipper on his shoulder; but Walter dodged down, 
and parrying the blow with his arm, sent the slipper 
in a graceful parabola across the washhand-stand into 
Jones’s basin.” 

“ So, so,” said Harpour, “you're a pretty cool hand, 
you are. Well, I’ve no time to settle accounts with 
you now, or I should be late for chapel. But— — ” 

A significant pantomime explained the remainder of 
the sentence, and then Harpour, standing in his one 
slipper, hastily adjourned to his toilet. Walter, being 


40 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


dressed in good time, knelt down for a few moments 
of hearty prayer, helped poor Eden, who was as help- 
less as though he had been always dressed by a serv- 
ant, to finish dressing, and ran across the court into 
the chapel just as the bell stopped. There were still 
two minutes before the door was shut, and he occupied 
them by watching the boys as they streamed in, many 
of them with their waistcoats only half buttoned, and 
others with the water-drops still dangling from their 
hastily-combed hair. lie saw Tracy saunter in very 
neat, but with a languid air of disapprobation, blushing 
withal as he entered ; Eden, whose large eyes looked 
bewildered until he caught sight of Walter and sat 
down beside him; Kenrick, beaming as ever, who 
nodded to him as he passed by ; Henderson, who, not- 
withstanding the time and place, found opportunity to 
whisper to him a hope that he had washed his desira- 
ble person in clear water; Plumber looking as if his 
credulity had been gorged beyond endurance ; Dau- 
beny with eyes immovably fixed in the determina- 
tion to know his lessons that day ; and lastly, Harpour, 
who had just time to scuffle in hot, breathless, and ex- 
ceedingly untidy, as the chaplain began the opening 
sentence. 

“Where am I to go now?” asked Eden, when 
chapel was over. 

“ Well, Eden, I know as little as you. You’d better 
ask your tutor. Here, Kenrick,” said W alter, “ which of 
those black gowns is Mr. Robertson? — this fellow’s 
tutor and mine.” 

Kenrick pointed out one of the masters, to whom 
* Eden went; and then Walter asked, “ Where am I to 
go to Mr. Paton’s form ? ” 

“Here, let me lead the victim to the sacrifice,” said 
Henderson ; “ Oh, for a wreath of cypress or funeral 
yew, or ” 

“ Kettles?” suggested Kenrick. 

“Observe, new boy,” said Henderson, “your eternal 
friend’s delicate insinuation that you are a donkey. 
Here, come with me and I’ll take you to be patted on.” 
Henderson’s exuberant spirits prevented his ever 


ST. WINIFRED'S. . 


41 


speaking without giving vent to slang, bad puns, or 
sheer good-humored nonsense. 

“Aren’t you in that form, Kenrick ? ” asked Walter, 
as he saw him diverging to the right. 

“ Oh no ! dear me, no ! ” said Henderson ; “ 1 am ; 
but the eternal friend is at least two forms higher. 
He, let me tell you, is a star of no ordinary magnitude; 
he’s in the Thicksides ’’—meaning the Thucydides class. 
“ You’ll require no end of sky-climbing before you 
reach his altitude. And now, victim, behold your sac- 
rificial priest,” he said, placing Walter at the end of 
a table among some thirty boys who were seated in 
front of a master’s desk in the large schoolroom, in 
various parts of which other forms were also beginning 
work under similar superintendence. When all the 
forms were saying lessons at the same time, it may be 
imagined that the room was not very still, and that a 
master required good lungs who had to teach and talk 
there for hours. 

Not that Mr. Paton’s form contributed very much 
to the quota of general noise. Although Henderson 
had chaffed Daubeny on his virtuous stillness, yet all 
the boys sat very nearly as quiet as Dubbs himself 
during school hours. Even Henderson and such mer- 
curial spirits were awed into silence and sobriety. 
You would hardly have known that in that quarter 
of the room there was a form at all. Quicksilver it- 
self would have lost its volatility under Mr. Paton’s 
manipulation. 

It was hard at first sight to say why this was. 
Certainly Mr. Paton set many punishments, but so did 
other masters who had not half his success. The 
secret was, that Mr. Paton was something of a rou- 
tinier, and that was the word which, if he had known 
it, Kenrick would have used to describe him. If he 
set an imposition, the imposition must be done, and 
must be done at a certain time, without appeal, and 
causa indicta. Mr. Paton was as deaf as Pluto to all 
excuses, and as inexorable as Rhadamanthus in his 
retributive dispensations. Neither Orpheus nor Am- 
phion would have moved him. Orpheus might have 


42 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


made all the desks and forms dance round as they 
listened to his song, but he could never have got Mr. 
Paton to let off fifty lines ; and Amphion would have 
been equally unsuccessful even if the walls of the 
court had come as petitioners in obedience to his 
strains. As for remitting a lesson, Mr. Paton would 
not have done it if St. Cecilia herself had offered him 
the whole wreath of roses which the admiring angels 
twined in her golden hair. 

Mr. Paton’s rule was not the leaden rule of Lesbos ; 
it could not be bent to suit the diversities of individual 
character, but was a rule iron and inflexible, which 
applied equally to all. His measure was that of Pro- 
crustes ; the cleverest boys could not stretch them- 
selves beyond it, the dullest were mechanically pulled 
into its dimensions. Hence some fared hardly under 
it ; yet let me hasten to say that, on the whole, with 
the great number of average boys, it was a success. 
The discipline which he established was perfect, and 
though many boys winced under it at the time, 
it was valuable to all of them, especially to those of an 
idle or sluggish tendency ; and as it was rigidly just as 
well as severe, they often learned to look back upon it 
with gratitude and respect. 

After a time the form went up to say a lesson. 
Each boy was put on in turn. When it came to 
Walter’s turn Mr. Paton first inquired his name, which 
he entered with extreme neatness in his class-book — a 
book in which there was not a single blot from the 
first page to the last. He then put him on as he had 
put on the rest. 

“ I had no book, sir, and didn’t know what the lesson 
was,” said Walter. 

“ Excuses, sir, excuses ! ” said Mr. Paton sternly ; 
“ you mean that you haven’t learnt the lesson.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ A bad beginning, Evson ; bring me no excuses in 
future. You must write the lesson out.” And an 
ominous entry implying this fact was recorded against 
Walter’s freshly-entered name. Most men would have 
excused the first punishment, and contented them- 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 43 

selves with a word of admonition ; but this was not 
Mr. Paton’ s way. lie held with Escalus that — 

Mercy is not itself that oft looks so ; 

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.* 

Now it happened that Walter hated excuses, and 
had always looked on them as first cousins to lies, and 
he determined never again to render to Mr. Paton any 
reason which could be construed into an excuse. lie 
therefore had to undergo a large amount of punish- 
ment, which he flattered himself could not by any 
possibility have been avoided. 

On this occasion Henderson was also turned, and 
with him a boy named Bliss. It was quite impos- 
sible for Henderson to be unemployed on some non- 
sense, and heedless of the fact that he was himself 
Bliss’s companion in misfortune, he opened a poetry- 
book, and taking Lycidas as his model, sat unusually 
still, while he occupied himself in composing a ‘ Lament 
for Blissidas,” beginning pathetically — 

Poor Blissidas is turned ; turned ere his prime 
Young Blissidas, and hath not left his peer ; 

Who would not weep for Blissidas ? He knew 
Himself to say his Rep. — but give him time — 

He must not quaff his glass of watery beer 
Unchaffed, or write, his paper ruled and lined, 
Without the meed of some melodious jeer. 

“I’ll lick you, Flip, after school,” said the wrathful 
Bliss, shaking his fist, as Henderson began to whisper 
to him this monody. 

“ Why do they call you Flip ?” asked Walter laugh- 
ing. 

“ Short for Flibbertygibbet,” said Bliss. 

“ Bliss, Henderson, and Evson, do me two hundred 
lines each,” said Mr. Paton ; and so, on this, his first 
morning in school, a second punishment was entered 
against Walter’s name. 

" “ Whew-w-w . . . abomination of . . . spoken of by 


* Measure for Measure , ii. 1. 


44 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


. . . liusli ! ” was Henderson’s whispered comment. 
“ I call that hard lines.” But he continued his “ Lament 
for Blissidas ” notwithstanding, introducing St. Wini- 
fred and other mourners over Bliss’s fate, and ending 
with the admonition that in writing the lines he was — 

To touch the tender tops of various quills, 

And mind and dot his quaint enamelled i’s. 

When Walter asked his tutor for the paper on which 
to write his punishment, Mr. Robertson said to him, 
“Already, Evson ! ” in a tone of displeasure, and with 
a sarcasm hardly inferior to that of Talleyrand’s cele- 
brated “ Deja.” “ Two hundred lines and a lesson to 
write out already ! ” Bitter ; with no sign of sympathy, 
without one word of inquiry, of encouragement for the 
future, or warning about the past — no advice given, 
no interest shown ; no wonder that Walter never got 
on with his tutor. 

The days that began for Walter from this time were 
days of darkness and disappointment. He was not 
deficient in natural ability, but he had undergone no 
special training for St. Winifred’s school, and conse- 
quently many things were new to him in which other 
boys had been previously trained The practice of 
learning grammar by means of Latin rules was particu- 
larly trying to him. He could have easily mastered 
the facts which the rules were intended to impress, 
but the empirical process suggested for arriving at 
the facts he could not remember, even if he could have 
construed the crabbed Latin in which it was conveyed. 
His father, too, had never greatly cultivated his powers 
of memory, and hence he felt serious difficulty at first 
with the long lessons that had to be learnt by heart. 

Mr. Patou’s system was simply this. If a boy failed 
in a lesson from any mundane cause whatever, he had to 
write it out ; if he failed to bring it written out, he had 
to write it twice ; if he was turned in a second lesson he 
was sent to detention, i.e. he was kept in during play 
hours ; if this process was longcontinued he was sent to 
the head-master in disgrace, and ran the chance of being 
flogged as an incorrigible idler. Mr. Patou, who was 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


45 


devoted to a system, made no allowance for differences 
of ability, or for idiosyncrasies of temperament ; lie was 
a truly good man, at bottom a really kind-hearted man, 
and a genuine Christian ; but the system which he 
had adopted was his “ idol of the cave,” and, as we said 
before, the justice of flexible adaptation was unknown 
to him. 

Now, the way the system worked on Walter was 
this : — Me failed in lessons because they were so new 
to him that he found it impossible to master them. 
Me was not accustomed to work in such a crowded 
and noisy place as the great schoolroom, and the early 
hour for going to bed left little time for evening work. 
Accordingly he often failed, and whenever he did, the 
impositions or detentions, or both, took away from his 
available time for mastering his difficulties, and as 
this necessitated fresh failures, every single punish- 
ment became frightfully accumulative, and, alas! be- 
fore six weeks were over, Walter was “sent up for 
bad” to the head-master. By this he felt degraded 
and discouraged to the last degree. Moreover, harm 
was done to him in many other ways. Conscious that all 
this disgrace had come upon him without any serious 
fault of his own, and even in spite of his direct and 
strenuous efforts, he became oppressed with a sense of 
injustice and undeserved persecution. The apparent 
uselessness of every attempt to shake himself free 
from these trammels of routine rendered him desperate 
and reckless, and the serious diminution of his hours 
for play and exercise made him dispirited and out of 
sorts. And all this brought on a bitter fit of home- 
sickness, during which he often thought of writing 
home and imploring to be removed from the school, or 
even of taking his deliverance into his own hands, and 
running away himself. But he knew that his father 
and mother were already distressed beyond measure 
to hear of the mill-round of punishment and discredit 
into which he had fallen, and about which he frankly 
informed them ; so for their sakes he determined to 
bear up a little longer. 

Walter was getting a bad name as an idler, and was fast 


46 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


losing his self-respect. And when that sheet-anchor 
is once lost, anything may happen to the ship; how- 
ever gay its trim, however taut its sides, however deli- 
cate and beautiful the curve of its prow, it may drive 
before the gale, it may be dashed pitilessly among the 
iron rocks, or stranded hopelessly upon the harbor 
bar. A little more of this discipline, and a boy natu- 
rally noble-hearted and capable, might have been trans- 
formed into a mere moon-calf, like poor Plumber, or a 
cruel and vicious bully, like Harpour or Jones. 

Happily he was saved by other influences from wholly 
losing his self-respect. He was saved from it by one 
or two kindly and genial friendships ; by success in 
other efforts, and by the happy consciousness that his 
presence at St. Winifred’s was a help and comfort to 
some who needed such assistance with sore need. 

One afternoon he was sitting disconsolately on a 
bench which ran along a blank wall on one side of the 
court, doing absolutely nothing. He was too disgusted 
with the world and with himself even to take up a 
novel. It was three o’clock, and the court was desert- 
ed for the playground, as a match had been announced 
that afternoon between the sixth form and the school, 
at which all but a very few (who never did anything 
but loaf about) were either playing or looking on. To 
sit with his head bent down, on a bench in an empty 
court, doing nothing while a game was going on, was 
very unlike the Walter Evson of two months before ; 
but at that moment Walter was weary of detention, 
which was just over; he was burdened with punish- 
ments, he was half sick for want of exercise, and he 
was too much out of spirits to do anything. 

Kenrick and Henderson had noticed and lamented 
the change in him. Not exactly knowing the causes 
of his ill-success, they were astonished to find so ap- 
parently clever a boy taking his place among the 
sluggards and dunces. With this, however, they con- 
cerned themselves less than with the settled gloom 
which was falling over him, and which rendered him 
much less available when they wanted to refresh them- 
selves by talking a little nonsense, or amusing them- 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


47 


selves in any other way. On this day, guessing how 
it was likely to be, Ken rick had proposed not to join 
the game until detention was over, and then to make 
Evson come up and play ; and Henderson had kindly 
offered to stay with him, and add his persuasions to 
his friend’s. 

As they came out ready dressed for football they 
caught sight of him. 

“ Come along, old fellow ; you’re surely going to fight 
for the school against the sixth,” said Kenrick. 

“ Isn’t it too late ? ” 

“ No ; any one is allowed a quarter of an hour’s grace.” 

“ Excuse number one bowled down, ” said Henderson. 

“ But I’m not dressed, I shan’t have time to put on 
my jersey.” 

“ Never mind, you’ll only want your cap and belt, 
and can play in your shirt-sleeves.” 

“ There goes excuse number two ; so cut along,” said 
Henderson, “and get your belt. We’ll wait for you 
here. Why, the eternal friend’s getting as wasted 
with misery as the daughter of Babylon,” said Hender- 
son, as Walter ran off. 

“ Yes ” said Kenrick ; “ I don’t like to see that glum 
look instead of the merry face he came with. Never 
mind ; the game’ll do him good ; I never saw such a 
player ; he looks just like the British lion when he 
gets into the middle of the fray ; plunges at everything, 
and shakes his mane. Here he is ; come along.” 

They ran up and found a hotly-contested game sway- 
ing to and fro between the goals ; and Walter, who was 
very active and a first-rate runner, was soon in the 
thick of it. As the evenness of the match grew more 
apparent the players got more and more excited. It 
had been already played several times, and no base had 
been kicked, except once by each side, when the scale 
had been turned by a heavy wind. Hence they exhib- 
ited the greatest eagerness, as school and sixth alike 
held it a strong point of honor to win, and a shout 
of approval greeted any successful catch or vigorous 
kick. 

Whenever the ball was driven beyond the bounds, 


48 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


it was kicked straight in, generally a short distance 
only, and the players on both sides struggled for it 
as it fell. During one of these momentary pauses 
Kenrick whispered to Walter, “ I say, Evson, next time 
it’s driven outside I’ll try to get it, and if you’ll stand 
just beyond the crowd I’ll kick it to you, and you can 
try a run.” 

“Thanks,” said Walter eagerly, “I’ll do my best.” 

The opportunity soon occurred. Kenrick ran for the 
ball; a glance showed him where Walter was stand- 
ing ; he kicked it with precision, and not too high, so 
that there was no time for the rest to watch where 
.it was likely to descend. Walter caught it, and before 
the others could recover from their surprise, was off 
like an arrow. Of course the whole of the opposite 
side were upon him in a moment, and he had to be as 
quick as a deer, and as wary as a cat. But now his 
splendid running came in, and he was besides' rather 
fresher than the rest. He dodged, he made wide de- 
tours, he tripped some and sprang past others, he dived 
under arms, and through legs, he shook off every touch, 
wrenched himself free from one capturer by leaving in 
his hands the whole shoulder of his shirt, and got nearer 
and nearer to the goal. At last he saw that there was 
one part of the field comparatively undefended ; in 
this direction he darted like lightning — charged and 
split, by the vehemence of his impulse, two fellows 
who stood with outstretched arms to stop him — seized 
the favorable instant, and by a swift and clever drop- 
kick, sent the ball flying over the bar amid deafening 
cheers, just as half the other side flung him down and 
precipitated themselves over his body. 

The run was so brilliant and so plucky, and the last 
burst so splendid, that even the defeated side could 
hardly forbear to cheer him. As for the conquerors, 
their enthusiasm knew no bounds ; they shook Walter 
by the hand, patted him on the back, clapped him, and 
at last lifted him on their shoulders for general in- 
spection. As yet he was known to very few, and 
“ Who’s that little fellow who got the school a base?” 
was a question which was heard on every side. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


49 


“ That’s Evson ; a new fellow, ” answered Ivenrick, 
Henderson, and all who knew him, as fast as they could, 
in reply to the general queries. They were proud to 
know him just then, and this little triumph occurred 
in the nick of time to raise poor Walter in his own 
estimation. 

“ Thanks, Kenrick, thanks,” he said, warmly grasp- 
ing his friend’s hand, as they left the field. “ They 
ought to have cheered you, not me, for if it hadn’t been 
for you I should not have got that base.” 

“ Pooh! ” was the answer ; “ I couldn’t have got it 
myself under any circumstances ; and even if I could, 
it is at least as much pleasure to me that you should 
have kicked it.” 

Of all earthly spectacles few are more beautiful, and 
in some aspects more touching, than a friendship 
between two boys, unalloyed by any taint of selfish- 
ness, indiscriminating in its genuine enthusiasm, deli- 
cate in its natural reserve. It is not always because 
the hearts of men are wiser, purer, or better than the 
hearts of boys, that summse puerorum amicitise ssepe 
cum toga, deponuntur. 

4 



“ EVSON, YOU MUST BE BESIDE YOURSELF.” 


CHAPTER THE SIXTH. 

A BURST OF WILFULXESS. 

Nunquamne reponam 

Yexatus toties ? — Juv. i. 1. 

Although Walter’s football triumphs prevented him 
from losing self-respect and sinking into wretchless- 
ness or desperation, they did not save him from his 
usual arrears of punishment and extra work. Besides 
this, it annoyed him bitterly to be always, and in spite 
of all effort, bottom, or nearly bottom, of his form. 
He knew that this grieved and disappointed his parents 
nearly as much as himself, and he feared that they 
would not understand the reason which, in his case, 
rendered it excusable, viz., the enormous amount of 
purely routine work, for which other boys had been 
prepared by previous training, and in which, under 
his present discouragements and inconveniences, he 
felt it impossible to recover ground. It was hard to 
be below boys to whom he knew himself to be superior 
5o 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


51 


in every intellectual quality ; it was hard for a boy 
really clever and lively, to be set down at once as an 
idler and dunce. And it made Walter very miserable. 
For meanwhile Mr. Paton had taken quite a wrong- 
view of his character. lie answered so well at times, 
construed so happily, and showed such bright flashes 
of intelligence and interest in parts of his work, that 
Mr. Paton, making no allowance for new methods and 
an untrained memory, set him down, by an error of 
judgment, as at once able and obstinate, capable of 
doing excellently, and wilfully refusing to do so. This 
was a phase of character which always excited his in- 
dignation ; and it was for the boy’s own sake that he 
set himself to correct it, if possible. On both sides, 
therefore, there was some misunderstanding, and a 
consequent exacerbation of mind which told injuriously 
on their daily intercourse. 

Walter’s vexation and misery reached its acme on 
the receipt by his father of his first school character, 
which document his father sent back for Walter’s own 
perusal, with a letter which, if not actually reproachful, 
was at least uneasy and dissatisfied in tone. 

For the character itself Walter cared little, knowing 
well that it was founded throughout on misapprehen- 
sion ; but his father’s letter stirred the very depths 
of his heart, and made them turbid with passion and 
sorrow. He received it at dinner-time, and read it as 
he went across the court to the detention-room, of 
which he was now so frequent an occupant. It was 
a bright November day, and he longed to be out at 
some game, or among the hills, or on the shore. In- 
stead of that, he was doomed for his failures to two 
long weary hours of mechanical pen-driving, of which 
the results were torn up when the two hours were 
over. He had had no recreation for the last week; all 
his spare time had been taken up with impositions; 
Mr. Robertson had given him a severe and angry lecture 
that morning ; even Mr. Paton, who rarely used strong 
language, had called him intolerable and incorrigible, 
and had threatened a second report to the head-master, 
because this was the tenth successive Greek grammar 


52 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


lesson in which he had failed. Added to all this, he 
was suffering from headache and lassitude. And now 
his father’s letter was the severest of his misfortunes. 
A rebellious, indignant, and violent spirit rose in him. 
Was he always, for no fault of his own-, to be bullied, 
baited, driven, misunderstood, and crushed in this 
way ? If it was of no use trying to be good, and to do 
his duty, how would it do to try the other experiment 
— to fling off the trammels of duty and principle alto- 
gether; to do all those things which inclination sug- 
gested and the moral sense forbade ; — to enjoy himself; 
to declare himself on the side of pleasure and self-in- 
dulgence? Certainly this would save him from much 
unpleasantness and annoyance in many ways. He 
was young, vigorous, active; he might easily make 
himself more popular than he was with the boys ; and 
as for the authorities, do what he would, it appeared 
that he could hardly be in worse disrepute than now. 
Vice bade high : as he thought of it all, his pen flew 
faster, and his pulse seemed to send the blood bound- 
ing through his veins as he tightened the grasp of his 
left hand round the edge of the desk. 

Hitherto the ideal which he had set before him as 
the standard to be attained during his school life, had 
been one in which a successful devotion to duty, and 
a real effort to attain to “godliness and good learning,” 
had borne the largest share. But on this morning a 
very different ideal rose before him ; he would aban- 
don all interest in school work, and only aim at being 
a gay, high-spirited boy, living solely for pleasure, 
amusement, and idleness. There were many such 
around him — heroes among their schoolfellows, popu- 
lar, applauded, and proud. Sin seemed to sit lightly 
and gracefully upon them. Endowed as he was with 
many gifts, to this condition at least he felt that he 
could easily attain. It was an ideal not, alas ! unnat- 
ural to the perilous age 

When young Dionysus seems 

All joyous as he burst upon the East 

A jocund and a welcome conqueror ; 

And Aphrodite, sweet as from the sea 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


53 


She rose, and floated in her pearly shell 
A laughing girl ; when lawless will erects 
Honor’s gay temple on the Mount of God, 

And meek obedience bears the coward’s brand ; 

While Satan in celestial panoply 
With sin, his lady, smiling by his side, 

Defies all heaven to arms. 

Yes; he would follow the multitude to share all the 
folly which he saw being done around him ; it looked 
a joyous and delightful prospect. He gazed on the 
bright vision of sin, on the laughing waters of pleas- 
ure; and did not know that the brightness was a mir- 
age of the desert, the iridescence, a film over a stagnant 
pool. 

The letter from home was his chief stumbling-block. 
He loved his father and mother with almost passionate 
devotion; he clung to his home with an intensity of 
concentrated love. He really had tried to please them, 
and to do his best ; but yet they didn’t seem to give 
him credit for it. Look at this cold reproachful letter ; 
it maddened him to think of it. 

There was only one thing which checked him. It 
was a little voice, which had been more silent lately, 
because other and passionate tones were heard more 
loudly; but yet even from a child poor Walter had 
been accustomed to listen with reverence to its admo- 
nitions. It was a voice behind him saying — “This is 
the way, walk ye in it ; ” now that he was turning aside 
to the right hand or to the left. But the still accents 
in which it whispered of patience were drowned just 
now in the clamorous turbulence of those other voices 
of appeal. 

The two hours of detention were over, and the 
struggle was over too. Walter drew his pen with a 
fierce and angry scrawl over the lines he had written, 
showed them up to the master in attendance with a 
careless and almost impudent air, and was hardly out 
of the room before he gave a shout of emancipation and 
defiance. Impatience and passion had won the day. 

He ran up to the playground as hard as he could 
tear to work off the excitement of his spirits, and get 


54 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


rid of the inward turmoil. On a grass bank at the far 
end of it he saw two boys seated, whom he knew at 
once to be Henderson and Kenrick, who, for a wonder, 
were reading, not green novels, but Shakespeare ! 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, Henderson,” he said ; “ I can't 
and I won't stand this any longer. It’s the last deten- 
tion breaks the boy’s back. I hate St. Winifred’s, 1 
hate Dr. Lane, I hate Robertson, and I hate, hate , hate. 
Paton,” he said, stamping angrily. 

“Hooroop!” said Henderson; “ so the patient Ev- 
son is on fire at last. Tell it not to Dubbs ! ” 

“ Why, Walter, what’s all this about?” asked Ken- 
rick. 

“ Why, Ken,” said Walter more quietly, “ here’s a 
history of my life : Greek grammar, lines, detention, 
caning — caning, detention, lines, Greek grammar. I’m 
sick of it ; I can't and I won't stand it any more.” 

“ Whether,” spouted Henderson, from the volume 
on his knee — 

“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And by opposing end them.” 

“ End them I will,” said Walter; “ somehow, I’ll pay 
him out, depend upon it.” 

“ Recte si possis si non quocunque modo," said Somers, 
the head of the school, whose fag Walter was, ancl 
who, passing by at the moment, caught the last sen- 
tence; “what is the excitement among vou small 
boys?” 

“ The old story, pitching into Paton,” said Kenrick, 
indifferently, and rather contemptuously ; for he was 
a protege of Somers, and felt annoyed that he should 
see Walter’s unreasonable display; the more so as 
Somers had asked him already, “ why he was so much 
with that idle new fellow who was always being placed 
lag in his form ? ” 

“What’s it all about?” asked Somers of Kenrick. 

“Because he gets lines for missing his grammar, I 
suppose.” There was something in the tone which 
was especially offensive to Walter; for it sounded as 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 55 

if Kenrick wanted to show him the cold shoulder 
before his great friend, the head of the school. 

“Oh, that all? Well, my dear fellow, the remedy’s 
easy ; work at it a little harder ; ” and Somers walked 
on, humming a tune. 

“ I wonder what he calls harder ,” said Walter, shak- 
ing his fist; “ when I first came I used to get up quite 
early in the morning, and learn it till 1 was half stupid ; 
I wonder whether he ever did as much ? ” 

“Well, but it’s no good abusing Paton,” said Ken- 
rick ; “ of course, if you don’t know the lesson, he con- 
cludes you haven’t learnt it.” 

“Thank you for nothing, Kenrick,” said Walter, 
curtly ; “ come along, Flip.” 

Kenrick was vexed ; he was conscious of having 
shown a little coolness and want of sympathy ; and he 
looked anxiously after Henderson and Walter as they 
walked away. 

Presently he started up and ran after them. “ Don’t 
be offended, Walter, my boy,” he said, seizing his 
hand. “ I didn’t mean to be cold just now ; but, 
really, I don’t see why you should be so very wrathful 
with Paton ; what can a master do if one fails in a 
lesson two or three times running? he must punish 
one, I suppose.” 

“Hang Paton,” said Walter, shaking off his hand 
rather angrily, for he was now thoroughly out of 
temper. 

“ Oh, very well, Evson,” said Kenrick, whose chief 
fault was an intense pride, which took fire on the least 
provocation, and which made him take umbrage at the 
slightest offence; “catch me making an advance to 
you again. Henderson, you left your book on the 
grass ” ; and turning on his heel he walked slowly 
away— heavy at heart, for he liked Walter better than 
any other boy in the school, and was half ashamed to 
break with him about such a trifle. 

Henderson, apart from his somewhat frivolous and 
nonsensical tone, was a well-meaning fellow. When 
he was walking with Walter, he had intended to chaff 
him about his sudden burst of ill-temper, and jest 


56 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


away his spirit of revenge; but he saw that poor 
Waiter was in no mood for jokes, and he quite lacked 
the moral courage to give good advice in a sober or 
serious way, or to recommend any course because it 
was right. This, at present, was beyond Henderson’s 
standard of good, so he left Walter and went back for 
his book. 

And Walter, flinging into the schoolroom, found 
several spirits seven times more wicked than himself, 
and fed the fire of his wrath with the fuel of unbounded 
abuse, mockery, and scorn of Mr. Paton, in which he 
was heartily abetted by the others, who hailed all in- 
dications that Walter was likely to become one of 
themselves. And that evening, instead of attempting 
to get up any of his work, Walter wasted the whole 
time of preparation in noise, folly, and turbulence ; for 
which he was duly punished by the master on duty. 

He got up next morning breathing, with a sense of 
defiance and enjoyment, his new atmosphere of self- 
will. He of course broke down utterly, more utterly 
than ever, in his morning lessons, and got a propor- 
tionately longer imposition. Going back to his place, 
he purposely flung down his books on the desk one 
after another with a bang; and for each book which 
he had flung down, Mr. Paton gave him a hundred 
lines, whereupon he laughed sarcastically, and got two 
hundred more. Conscious that the boys were watch- 
ing with some amusement this little exhibition of 
temper and trial of wills, he then took out a sheet of 
paper, wrote on it, in large letters, the words Two 
hundred lines for Mr. Paton, and, amid the tittering 
of the form, carried it up to Mr. Paton’s desk. 

This was the most astoundingly impudent and in- 
subordinate act which had ever been done to Mr. 
Paton for years, and it was now his turn to be angry. 
But mastering his anger with admirable determination 
he merely said — “ Evson, you must be beside yourself 
this morning; it is very rarely, indeed, that a new boy 
is so far gone in disobedience as this. I have no hesi- 
tation in saying that you are the most audacious and 
impertinent new boy with whom I have ever had to 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


57 


deal. I must cane you in my room after detention to 
which you will of course go.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Walter, with a smile of im- 
pudent sang-froid ; and the form tittered again as he 
walked noisily to his seat. But Mr. Paton, allowing 
for his violent frame of mind, took no notice of this 
last affront. 

Whereupon Walter, taking another large piece of 
paper, and a spluttering quill pen, wrote on it, with a 
great deal of scratching — 


Due from W. Evson 
to 

Mr. Paton 


For missing lesson . 

For laying down books . 
For laughing . 

For writing 200 lines 


100 lines 
300 lines 
200 lines 
A caning 


Detention, of course. 
Thank you for nothing. 


And on the other side of the sheet he wrote in large 
letters — “No go! ” Which being done, he passed the 
sheet along the form pour encourager les autres. 

“Evson,” said Mr. Paton quietly, “ bring me that 
paper.” 

Walter took it up — looking rather alarmed this time 
— but with the side “ No go /” uppermost. 

“ What is this, Evson ? ” 

“Number ninety, sir,” said Walter, amid the now 
unconcealed laughter of the rest, who knew very well 
that he had intended it for “ No go.” 

Mr. Paton looked curiously at Walter for a minute, 
and then said — “Evson, Evson, I could not have 
thought you so utterly foolish. Well, you know that 
each fresh act must have its fresh punishment. You 
must leave the room now, and besides all your other 
punishments I must also report you to the head-master. 
You can best judge with what result.” 

This was a mistake of Mr. Paton’s — a mistake of 
judgment only — for which he cannot be blamed. But 
it was a disastrous mistake. Had he been at all a 


58 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


delicate judge or reader of the phenomena of character, 
he would have observed at once that at that moment 
there was a wild spirit of anger, a rankling sense of 
injustice and persecution in Walter’s heart, which no 
amount of punishment could have cowed. Walter 
just then might without the least difficulty have been 
goaded into some act of violence which would have 
rendered expulsion from the school an unavoidable 
consequence. So easy is it to petrify the will, to make 
a boy bad in spite of himself, and to spoil, with no 
intentions but those of kindliness and justice, the 
promise of a fair young life. For when the will has 
once been suffered to grow rigid by obstinacy — a result 
which is very easy to avoid — no power on earth can 
bend it at the time. Had Mr. Paton sent Walter out of 
the room before ; had he at the end said, “Evson, you 
are not yourself to-day, and I forgive yon,” Walter 
would have been in a moment as docile and as humble 
as a child. But as it was, he left the room quite coolly, 
with a sneer on his lips, and banged the door ; yet the 
next moment, when he found himself in the court 
alone, unsupported by the countenance of those who 
enjoyed his rebelliousness, he seated himself on a 
bench in the courtyard, hung his head on his breast, 
and burst into a flood of tears. If any friend could 
have seen him at that moment, or spoken one word in 
season, how much pain the poor boy might have been 
saved! Kenrick happened to cross the court; the 
moment Walter caught sight of him he sat with head 
erect and arms folded, but Kenrick was not to be de- 
ceived. He had caught one glimpse of Walter first ; 
he saw his eyes wet with tears, and knew that he was 
in trouble. He hung on his foot doubtfully for one 
moment — but then his pride came in ; he remembered 
the little pettish repulse in the playground the day 
before; the opportunity was lost, and he walked 
slowly on. 

And Walter’s heart grew as hard within him as a 
stone. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


59 


CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. 

VOGUE LA GALE RE. 

Ah, Diamond, thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done. 

Life of Sir I. Newton. 

That afternoon Mr. Paton, going into the Combina- 
tion Room, where the masters often met, threw him- 
self into one of the arm-chairs with an unwonted ex- 
pression of vexation and disgust on his usually placid 
features. 

“ Why, what’s the matter with you, Paton ? ” asked 
Mr. Robertson. “ Is to-day’s Times too liberal for 
your notions, or what ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Paton ; “but I have just been caning 
Evson, a new boy, and the fellow’s stubborn obstinacy 
and unaccountable coolness annoy me exceedingly.” 

“Oh yes; he’s a pupil of mine, I’m sorry to say, and 
he has never been free from punishment since he came. 
Even your Procrustean rule seems to fail with him, 
Paton. What have you been obliged to cane him 
for ? ” 

Mr. Paton related Walter’s escapade. 

“Well, of course, you had no choice but to cane 
him,” replied his colleague, “for such disobedience; 
but how did he take it ? ” 

“In the oddest way possible. He came in with 
punctilious politeness, obviously assumed, with sar- 
castic intentions. When I took up the cane he stood 
with arms folded, and a singularly dogged look ; in 
fact, his manner disarmed me. You know I detest 
caning, and I really could not do it, never having had 
occasion for it for months together. I gave him two 
cuts, and then left off. ‘May I go, sir?’ he asked. 
‘Yes,’ I said, and he left the room with a bow, and a 


60 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


6 Thank you, sir.’ I am really sorry for the boy ; for 
as I was obliged to send him to Dr. Lane, he will 
probably get another flogging from him.” 

“ What a worthless boy he must be,” answered 
Mr. Robertson. 

“ No, not exactly worthless ; there’s something about 
him I can’t help liking; but most impudent and 
stubborn.” 

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Percival, another of the 
masters, who had been listening attentively to the 
conversation. “ I humbly venture to think that you’re 
both mistaken in that boy. I like him exceedingly, 
and think him as promising a lad as any in the school. 
I never knew any boy behave more modestly and 
respectfully.” 

“ Why, how do you know anything of him?” asked 
Mr. Robertson in surprise. 

“Only by accident. I had once or twice noticed 
him among the detenus , and being sorry to think that 
a new boy should be always under punishment, I 
asked him one day why he was sent so often to do extra 
work, lie told me that it was for failing in a lesson, 
and when I asked why he hadn’t learned it, he said, 
very simply and respectfully, ‘ I really did my very 
best, sir ; but it’s all new work to me.’ Look at the 
boy’s innocent face, and you will be sure that he was 
telling me the truth. 

“ I’m afraid,” continued Mr. Percival, “ you’ll think 
this very slight ground for setting my opinion against 
yours ; but I was pleased with Evson’s manner, and 
asked him to come and take a stroll on the shore, that 
I might know something more of him. Do you know, 
I never found a more intelligent companion. He was 
all life and vivacity ; it was quite a pleasure to be 
with him. Being new to the sea, he didn’t know the 
names of the commonest things on the shore, and if 
you had seen his face light up as he kept picking up 
whelks’ eggs, and mermaids’ purses, and zoophytes, 
and hermit-crabs, and bits of plocamium or coralline, 
and asking me all I could tell him about them, you 
would not have thought him a stupid or worthless boy.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


61 


“ I don’t know, Percival ; you are a regular conjurer. 
All sorts of ne’er-do-wells succeed under your manipu- 
lation. You’re a first-rate hand at gathering grapes 
from thorns, and figs from thistles. Why, even out of 
that Caliban, old Woods, you used to extract a gleam 
of human intelligence.” 

“ He wasn’t a Caliban at all. I found him an ex- 
cellent fellow at heart; but what could you expect of 
a boy who, because he was big, awkward, and stupid, 
was always getting flouted on all sides? Sir Hugh 



Evans is not the only person who disliked being made 
a 4 vlouting-stog.’ ” 

“You must have some talisman for transmuting boys 
if you consider old Woods an excellent fellow, Percival. 
I found him a mass of laziness and brute strength. 
Do give me your secret.” 

“ Try a little kindness and sympathy. I have no 
other secret.” 

“Pm not conscious of failing in kindness,” said Mr. 
Robertson dryly. “My fault, I think, is being too 
kind.” 

“To clever, promising, bright boys — yes ; to un- 
thankful and evil boys (excuse me for saying so) — no. 
You don’t try to descend to their dull level, and so to 
understand their difficulties. You don’t suffer fools 


62 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


gladly, as we masters ought to do. But, Patou,” he 
said, turning the conversation, which seemed distaste- 
ful to Mr. Robertson, “ will you try how it succeeds to 
lay the yoke a little less heavily on Evson ?” 

“Well, Percival, I don’t think that I’ve consciously 
bullied him. I can’t make my system different to him 
and other boys.” 

“My dear Paton, forgive my saying that I don’t 
think that a rigid system is the fairest ; summa lex , 
summa crux. Fish of very different sorts and sizes 
come to our nets, and you can’t shove a turbot through 
the same mesh that barely admits a sprat.” 

“ I’ll think of what you say ; but I must leave him 
in Dr. Lane’s hands now,” said Mr. Paton. 

“ Who, I heartily' hope, won’t flog him,” said Mr. 
Percival. 

“ Why ? I don’t see how he can do otherwise.” 

“Because it will simply drive him to despair; be- 
cause, if I know anything of his character, it will have 
upon him an effect incalculably bad.” 

“ I hope not,” said Mr. Paton. 

The conversation dropped, and Mr. Percival resumed 
his newspaper. 

When Walter went to Dr. Lane in the evening, the 
Doctor inquired kindly and carefully into the nature 
of his offence. This, unfortunately, was clear enough, 
and Walter was far too ingenuous to attempt any ex- 
tenuation of it. Even if he had not been intentionally 
idle, it was plain, on his own admission, that he had 
been guilty of the greatest possible insubordination 
and disrespect. These offences were rare at St. Wini- 
fred’s, and especially rare in a new boy. Puzzled as 
he was by conduct so unlike the boy’s apparent char- 
acter, and interested by his natural and manly man- 
ner, yet Dr. Lane had in this case no alternative but 
the infliction of corporal punishment. 

Humiliated again, and full of bitter anger, Walter 
returned to the great schoolroom, where lie was re- 
ceived with sympathy and kindness by the others in 
his class. It was the dark part of the evening before 
tea-time, and the boys, sitting idly round the fire, were 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


63 


in an apt mood for folly and mischief. They began a 
vehement discussion about Patou’s demerits, and called 
him every hard name they could invent. Walter took 
little part in this, for he was smarting too severely 
under the sense of oppression to find relief in mere 
abuse; but, from his flashing eyes and the scowl that 
sat so ill on his face, it was evident that a bad spirit 
had obtained the thorough mastery over all his better 
and gentler impulses. 

“ Can’t we do something to serve the fellow out?” 
said Anthony, one of the boys in Walter’s dormitory. 

“ But what can we do ?” asked several. 

“ What, indeed?” asked Henderson, mockingly ; and 
as it was his way to quote whatever he had last been 
reading, he began to spout from the peroration of a 
speech which he had seen in the paper — “Aristocracy, 
throned on the citadel of power, and strong in ” 

“ What a fool you are, Henderson,” observed Frank- 
lin, another of the group ; “ I’ll tell you what we can 
do ; we’ll burn that horrid black book in which he 
enters the detentions and impositions.” 

“Poor book!” said Henderson ; “ what pangs of 
conscience it will suffer in the flames; give it not the 
glory of such martyrdom. Walter,” he continued, in 
a lower voice, “I hope that you’ll have nothing to do 
with this humbug ? ” 

“I will though, Henderson ; if I’m to have nothing 
but callings and floggings, I may just as well be caned 
and flogged for something as for nothing 

“The desk’s locked,” said Anthony; “we shan’t be 
able to get hold of the imposition book.” 

“I’ll settle that,” said Walter; “here, just hand me 
the poker, Dubbs.” 

“I shall do no such thing,” said Daubeny quietly, 
and his reply was greeted with a shout of derision. 

“ Why, you coward, Dubbs,” said Franklin, “ you 
couldn't get anything for handing the poker.” 

“ I never supposed I could, Franklin,” he answered ; 
“and as for being a coward, the real cowardice would 
be to do what’s absurd and wrong for fear of being 
laughed at or being kicked. Well, you may hit me,” 


64 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


he said quietly, as Franklin twisted his arm tightly 
round, and hit him on it, “ but you can’t make me do 
what I don’t choose.” 

“ We’ll try,” said Franklin, twisting his arm still 
more tightly, and hitting harder. 

“You’ll try in vain,” answered Daubeny, though the 
tears stood in his eyes at the violent pain. 

“ Drop his arm, you Franklin,” indignantly exclaimed 
Henderson, who, though he was always teasing Dau- 
beny, was very fond of him ; “ drop his arm, or, by 
Jove, you’ll find that two can play at that. Dubbs is 
quite right, and you’re a set of asses if you think you’ll 
do any good by burning the punishment book. I’ve 
got the poker, and you shan’t have it to knock the 
desk open. I suppose Paton can afford sixpence to 
buy another book ; and enter a tolerable fresh score 
against you for this besides.” 

“ But he won’t remember my six hundred lines, and 
four or five detentions,” said Walter; “here, give me 
the poker.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! Evson, of course he’ll remember 
them; here, I’ll help you with the lines; I’ll do a 
couple of hundred for you, and the rest you can write 
with two pens at a time; it won’t take you an hour. 
I’ll show you the two-pen dodge ; I’ll admit you into 
the two-pen-etralia. Like Milton, you shall ‘ touch the 
slender tops of various quills.’ No, no,” he contin- 
ued, in a playful tone, in order not to make Walter in 
a greater passion than he was, “you can’t have the 
poker; any one who wants that must take it from me 
vi et armis .” 

“It doesn’t matter; this’ll do as well; and here 
goes,” said Walter, seizing a wooden stool. « There’s 
the desk open for you,” he said, as he brought the top 
of the stool with a strong blow against the lid, and 
burst the lock with a great crash. 

“ My eyes ! we shall get into a row,” said Franklin, 
opening his eyes to illustrate his exclamation. 

“Well, what’s done’s done ; let’s all take our share,” 
said Anthony, diving his hand into the desk. “ Here’s 
the imposition book for you, and here goes leaf number 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


65 


one into the fire ; you can tear out the next if you like, 
Franklin.” 

“Very well,” said Franklin ; “in for a penny in for 
a pound ; there goes the second leaf.” 

“And here the third ; over ankles over knees,” said 
Burton, another of those present. 

“Proverbial Fool-osophy,” observed Henderson, con- 
temptuously, as Burton handed him the book. “ Shall 
I be a silly sheep like the rest of you, and leap over 
the bridge because your leader has ? I suppose 1 must, 
though it’s very absurd.” He wavered and hesitated; 
sensible enough to disapprove of so useless a proceed- 
ing, he yet did not like to be thought afraid. He 
minded what fellows would think. 

“Do what’s right,” said Daubeny, “and shame the 
devil; here, give me the book. How, you fellows, 
you’ve torn out these leaves and done quite mischief 
enough. Let me put the book back, and don’t be like 
children who hit the fender against which they’ve 
knocked their heads.” 

“ Or dogs that bite the stick they’ve been thrashed 
with,” said Henderson. “ You’re right, Dubbs, and I 
respect you ; ay, you fellows may sneer if you like, but 
I advised you not to do it, and I won’t make myself 
an idiot because you do.” 

“ Never mind,” drawled Howard Tracy ; “ I hate 
Paton, and I’ll do anything to spite him ; ” whereupon 
he snatched the book from Daubeny, and threw it entire 
into the flames. Poor Tracy had been even in more 
serious scrapes with Mr. Paton than Walter had ; his 
vain manner was peculiarly abhorrent to the master, 
who took every opportunity of snubbing him ; but 
nothing would pierce through the thick cloak of Tracy’s 
conceit, and fully satisfied with himself, his good 
looks, and his aristocratic connections, he sat down in 
contented ignorance, and despised learning too much 
to be in the least put out by being regarded as a hope- 
less dunce. 

“ What, is there nothing left for me to burn ?” said 
Walter, who sat glowering on the high iron fender, 
and swinging his legs impatiently. “ Let’s see what 

5 


66 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 



else there is in the desk. Here are a pack of old exer- 
cises apparently, they’ll make a jolly blaze. Stop, 
though, are they old exercises? Well, never mind; 
if not, so much the better. In they shall go.” 

“ Stop, what are you doing, Walter ?” said Hender- 
son, catching him by the arm ; “ you know these can’t 

be old exercises. 
Paton always 
puts them in his 
waste paper bas- 
ket, not in his 
desk. O Wal- 
ter, what have 
you done ? ” 

“ The outside 
sheets were ex- 
e r c i s e s, any- 
how,” said Wal- 
ter g 1 o o m i 1 y ; 
“ here, it’s no 
good trying to 
save them now, 
whatever they 
were ’’(for Hen- 
derson was at- 
tempting to 
rake them out 
between the 
bars) ; “ they’re 
done for now,” 
and he pressed 
down the thick 
mass of foolscap 
into the reddest 
centre of the fire, 
and held it there until nothing remained of it* but a 
heap of flaky crimson ashes. 


A dead silence followed, for the boys felt that now 
at any rate they were “in for it.” 

The sound of the tea-bell prevented further mis- 
chief ; and as Henderson thrust his arm through 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


67 


Walter’s, he said, “O Evson, I wish you hadn’t done 
that ; I wish I’d got you to come away before. What 
a passionate fellow you are.” 

“Well, it’s done now,” said Walter, already begin- 
ning to soften, and to repent of his fatuity. 

“ What can we do ? ” said Henderson anxiously. 

“ Take the consequences ; that’s all,” answered 
Walter. 

“ Hadn’t you better go and tell Paton about it at 
once, instead of letting him find it out?” 

“No,” said Walter; “he’s done nothing but bully 
me, and I don’t care.” 

“ Then let me go,” said his friend earnestly. “ I 
know Paton well ; I’m sure he’d be ready to forgive 
you, if I explained it all to him.” 

“You’re very good, Flip; but don’t go— it’s too 
late.” 

“ Well, Walter, you mustn’t think that I had no 
share in this because of being afraid. I was one of the 
group, and I’ll share the punishment with you, what- 
ever it is. I hope for your sake it won’t be found 
out.” 

But if Henderson had seen a little deeper he would 
have hoped that it would be found out, for there is 
nothing that works quicker ruin to any character than 
undiscovered wrongdoing. It was happy for Walter 
that his wrong impulses did not remain undiscov- 
ered ; happy for him that they came so rapidly to be 
known and to be punished. 

It was noised-through the school in five minutes that 
Evson, one of the new fellows, had smashed open 
Paton’s desk, and burned the contents. “What an 
awful row he’ll get into,” was the general comment. 
Walter heard Kenrick inquiring eagerly about it as 
they sat at tea; but Kenrick did not ask him about it, 
though they sat so near each other. After the foolish, 
proud manner of sensitive boys, Walter and Kenrick, 
though each liked the other none the less, were not on 
speaking terms. Walter, less morbidly proud than 
Kenrick, would not have suffered this silly alienation 
to continue had not his attention been occupied by 


68 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


other troubles. Neither of them, therefore, liked to 
be the first to break the ice, and now in his most seri- 
ous difficulty Walter had lost the advice and sympathy 
of his most intimate friend. 

The fellows seemed to think that he must inevitably 
be expelled for tills fracas. The poor boy’s thoughts 
were very very bitter as he laid his head that night on 
his restless pillow, remembered what an ungovernable 
fool he had been, and dreamt of his happy and dear- 
loved home. How strangely he seemed to have left 
his old, innocent life behind him, and how little he 
would have believed it possible, three months ago, 
that he could by any conduct of his own have so soon 
incurred, or nearly incurred, the penalty of expulsion 
from St. Winifred’s School. 

He had certainly yielded very quickly to passion, 
and he felt that in consequence he had made his posi- 
tion more serious than that of other boys who were in 
every sense of the word twice as bad as himself. But 
what he laid to the score of his ill-luck was in truth a 
very happy providence by which punishment was sent 
speedily and heavily upon him, and so his evil tenden- 
cies, mercifully nipped in the bud, crushed with a 
tender yet with an iron hand before they had expanded 
more blossoms and been fed by deeper roots. He might 
have been punished less speedily had his faults been 
more radical, or his wrongdoings of a deeper dye. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


69 


CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. 

THE BURNT MANUSCRIPT. 


All, 

All my poor scrapings, from a dozen years 
Of dust and desk-work . — Sea Dreams. 

It may be supposed that during chapel the next 
morning, and when he went into early school, Walter 
was in an agony of almost unendurable suspense ; and 
this suspense was doomed to be prolonged for some 
time, until at last he could hardly sit still. Mr. Paton 
did not at once notice that his desk was broken. He 
laid down his books, and went on as usual with the 
morning lesson. 

At length Tracy was put on. He stood up in his usual 
self-satisfied way, looking admiringly at his boots, and 
running his delicate white hand through his hair. Mr. 
Paton watched him with a somewhat contemptuous 
expression, as though he were thinking what a pity it 
was that any boy should be such a puppy. Hender- 
son, with his usual quick discrimination, had nick- 
named Tracy the “ Lisping Hawthornbud.” 

“ Your fifth failure this week, Tracy ; you must do the 
usual punishment,” said Mr. Paton, taking up his key 
to unlock the desk. 

“Now for it,” thought all the form, looking on 
with great anxiety. 

The key caught hopelessly in the broken lock. Mr. 
Paton ’s attention was aroused ; he pushed the lid off the 
desk, and saw at once that it had been broken open. 

“Who has broken open my desk?” 

No answer. 

He looked very grave, but said nothing, looking for 
his imposition book. 


70 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“Where is my imposition book?” 

No answer. 

“And where is my ?” 

Mr. Paton stopped, and looked with the greatest 
eagerness over every corner of the desk. 

“ Where is the manuscript I left here with my im- 
position book ? ” he said in a tone of the most painful 
anxiety. 

“ I do hope and trust,” he said, turning pale, “ that 
none of you have been wicked enough to injure it,” 
and here his voice faltered. “ When I tell you that it 
was of the utmost value, I am sure that if any of you 
have concealed or taken it, you will give it back at 
once.” 

There was deep silence. 

“ Once again,” he asked, “ where is my imposition 
book ? ” 

“Burnt, sir; burnt, sir,” said one or two voices, 
hardly above a whisper. 

“ And my manuscript ? ” he asked, in a louder voice, 
and in still greater agitation. “ Surely, surely, you 
cannot have been so thoughtless, so incredibly unjust 
as to ” 

Walter stood up in his place, with his head bent, 
and his face covered with an ashy whiteness. “I 
burnt it, sir,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice, and 
trembling with fear. 

“ Come here,” said Mr. Paton impetuously ; “ I can’t 
hear what you say. Now, then,” he continued, as 
Walter crept up beside his desk. 

“ I burnt it, sir,” he said, in a whisper. 

“You — burnt — it,” said Mr. Paton, starting up in 
uncontrollable emotion, which changed into a burst 
of anger, as he gave Walter a box on the ear which 
sounded all over the room, and made the boy stagger 
back to his place. But the flash of rage was gone in an 
instant ; and the next moment Mr. Paton, afraid of 
trusting himself any longer, left his desk and hurried 
out, anxious to recover in solitude the calmness of mind 
and action which had been so terribly disturbed. 

Mr. Percival, who taught his form in another part of 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


71 


the room, seeing Mr. Paton box Walter so violently on 
the ear, and knowing that this was the very reverse of 
his usual method, since he had never before touched a 
boy in anger, walked up to see what was the matter, 
just as Mr. Paton, with great hurried strides, had 
reached the door. 

“ What is the matter with Mr. Paton?” he asked. 

There was a general murmur through the form, out 
of which Mr. Percival caught something about Mr. 
Paton’s papers having been burnt. 

Anxious to find him, to ask what had happened, Mr. 
Percival, leaving the room, caught sight of him pacing 
with hasty and uneven steps along a private garden 
walk which belonged to the masters. 

“ I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred,” he said, 
overtaking him. 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Paton, with quiver- 
ing lip, as he turned aside. And then, suppressing his 
emotion by a powerful effort of self-control : “It is 
only,” he said, “ that the hard results of fifteen years’ 
continuous labor are now condensed into a heap of 
smut and ashes in the schoolroom fire.” 

“You don’t mean to say that your Hebrew manu- 
scripts are burnt?” asked Mr. Percival in amazement. 

“You know how I have been toiling at them for 
years, Percival ; you know that I began them before I 
left college, that I regarded them as the chief work of 
my life, and that I devoted to them every moment of 
my leisure. You know, too, the pride and pleasure 
which I took in their progress, and the relief with 
which I turned to them from the vexations and 
anxieties of one’s life here. To work at them has been 
for years my only recreation and delight. Well, they 
were finished at last ; I was only correcting them for 
the press ; they would have gone to the printer in a 
month, and I should have lived to complete a toilsome 
and honorable task. Well, the dream is over, and a 
handful of ashes represents the struggle of my best 
3'ears.” 

Mr. Percival knew well that his coadjutor had been 
working for years at a commentary on the Hebrew 


72 


ST. WINIFRED’S. 


text of the Four Greater Prophets. It had been the 
cherished and chosen task of his life; he had brought 
to it great stores of learning, accumulated in the vigor 
of his powers, and the enthusiasm of a youthful ambi- 
tion, and he had employed upon it every spare hour 
left him from his professional duties. He looked to it 
as the means of doing essential service to the Church 
of which he was an ordained member. And in five 



minutes the hand of one angry boy had robbed him of 
the fruit of all his hopes. 

“ If they wanted to display the hatred which I well 
know that they feel,” said Mr. Paton bitterly, “they 
might have chosen any way, literally any way , but 
that. They might have left me, at least, that which 
was almost my only pleasure, — the one object in life 
which had no connection with them or their pursuits.” 
And his face grew haggard as he stopped in his walk, 
and tried to realize the extent of what he had lost. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


73 


“ I would rather have seen everything I possess in the 
whole world destroyed than that,” he said slowly, and 
with strong emotion. 

“ And was it really Evson who did this?” asked Mr. 
Percival, filled with the sincerest pity for his colleague’s 
wounded feelings. 

“ It matters little who did it, Percival ; but, yes, it 
was your friend Evson.” 

“ The little graceless, abominable wretch ! ” ex- 
claimed Mr. Percival, with anger, “he must be ex- 
pelled. But can’t you re-eommence the task ? ” 

“Re-commence?” said Mr. Paton, in a hard voice; 
“ and who will give me back the hope and vigor of the 
last fifteen years ? how shall I have the heart again to 
toil through the same long trains of research and 
thought ? where are the hundreds of references which 
I had sought out and verified with hours of heavy mid- 
night labor? how am I to have access again to the 
scores of books which I consulted before I began to 
work ? The very thought of it sickens me. Youth and 
hope are over. No, Percival, there is no more to be 
said. I am robbed of a life’s work. Leave me, please, 
alone for a little, until I have learnt to say less bitterly, 
‘ God’s will be done.’ ” 


“ He needeth not 

Either man’s work or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke they please him best,” 

said Mr. Percival, in a tone of kind and deep sympathy, 
as he left him to return to the schoolroom. 

But once in sight of Mr. Paton’s open and rifled desk, 
Mr. Percival’s pent- up indignation burst forth into 
clear flame. Stopping in front of Mr. Paton’s form, he 
exclaimed, in a voice that rang with scorn and sor- 
row — 

“You boys do not know the immense mischief which 
your thoughtless and worthless spite and folly have 
caused. I say boys, but I believe, and rejoice to be- 
lieve, that one only of you is guilty, and I rejoice, too, 
that that one is a new boy, who must have brought 
here feelings and passions more worthy of an ignorant 


74 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


and ill- trained ploughboy than of a St. Winifred’s 
scholar. The hand that would burn a valuable manu- 
script would fire a rick of hay.” 

“ O sir,” said Henderson, starting up and interrupt- 
ing him, “we were all very nearly as bad. It was the 
rest of us that burnt the imposition book ; Evson had 
nothing to do with that.” Henderson had forgotten 
for the moment that he at least had had no share in 
burning the imposition book, for his warm quick heart 
could not bear that these blows should fall unbroken 
on his friend’s head. 

But his generous effort failed, for Mr. Percival, barely 
noticing the interruption, continued — “The imposition 
book? I know nothing about that. If you burnt it you 
were very foolish and reckless ; you deserve no doubt 
to be punished for it, but that was comparatively noth- 
ing. But do you know, bad boy,” he said, turning 
again to Walter, “do you know what you have done? 
Do you know that your dastardly spitefulness has led 
you to destroy writings which had cost your master 
years and years of toil that cannot be renewed? He 
treated you with unswerving impartiality ; he never 
punished you but when you deserved punishment, and 
when he believed it to be for your good, and yet you 
turn upon him in this adder-like way ; you break open 
his desk like a thief, and, in one moment of despicable 
ill-temper, you rob him and the world of that which 
had been the pursuit and object of his life. You, Ev- 
son, may well hide your face” — for Walter had bent 
over the desk, and in agonies of shame and remorse 
had covered his face with both hands ; — “ you may well 
be ashamed to look either at me or at any honest and 
manly and right-minded boy among your companions. 
You have done a wrong for which it will be years 
hence a part of your retribution to remember, that 
nothing you can ever do can repair it, or do away with 
its effects. I am more than disappointed with you. 
You have done mischief which the utmost working of 
all your powers cannot for years counterbalance, if, 
instead of being as base and idle as you now appear to 
be, you were to devote your whole heart to work. I 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


75 


don’t know what will be clone to you; T, for my part 
hope that you will not be suffered to remain with us ; 
but if you are, I am sure that you will receive, as you 
richly deserve, the reprobation and contempt of every 
boy among your school-fellows who is capable of one 
spark of honor or right feeling.” 

Every word that Mr. Percival had said came to poor 
Walter with the most poignant force; all the master’s 
reproaches pierced his heart and let blood. He sat 
there not stirring, stunned and crushed, as though he 
had been beaten by the blows of a hammer. He 
quailed and shuddered to think of the great and cruel 
injustice, the base and grievous injury, into which his 
blind passion had betrayed him, and thought that he 
could never hold up his head again. 

Mr. Percival’s indignant expostulation passed over 
the other culprits who heard it like a thunderstorm. 
There was a force and impetuosity in this gentleman’s 
manner, when his anger was kindled, which had long 
gained for him among the boys, with whom he was the 
most popular of all the masters, the half-complimen- 
tary sobriquet of “ Thunder-and-lightning.” But none 
of them had ever before heard him speak with such 
concentrated energy and passion, and all except the 
generous Henderson were awed by it into silence. But 
Henderson at that moment was wholly absorbed in 
Walter’s sorrows. 

“ Tell him,” said he in Walter’s ear, “tell him it was 
all a mistake, that you thought the papers were old 
exercises. Dear Walter, tell him before he goes.” 

But Walter still rested with his white cheeks on his 
hands upon the desk, and neither moved nor spoke. 
And Mr. Percival, turning indignantly upon his heel, 
with one last glance of unmitigated contempt, had 
walked off to his own form. 

“ Walter, don’t take it to heart so,” said Henderson, 
putting his arm round his neck; “ you couldn’t help 
it; you made a sad mistake, that’s all. Go and tell 
Paton so, and Pm sure he’ll forgive you.” 

A slight quiver was all that showed that Walter 
heard. Henderson would have liked to see his anguish 


76 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


relieved by a burst of tears; but the tears did not 
come, and Walter did not move. 

At last a hand touched him, and he heard the voice 
of the head-boy say to him, “Get up, Evson, I’m to 
take you to Dr. Lane with a note from Mr. Percival.” 

He rose and followed mechanically, waiting in the 
head-master’s porch, while the monitor went in. 

“Dr. Lane won’t see you now,” said Somers, coming 
out again. “ Croft ” (addressing the school Famulus), 
“ Dr. Lane says you’re to lock up Evson by himself in 
the private room.” 

Walter followed the Famulus to the private room, a 
little room at the top of the house, where he knew that 
boys were locked previous to expulsion, that they might 
have no opportunity for doing any mischief before they 
went. 

The Famulus left him here, and returned a few min- 
utes after with some bread and milk, which he placed 
on the deal table, which, with a wooden chair, consti- 
tuted the sole furniture of the room ; he then locked 
the door, and left Walter finally to his own reflec- 
tions. 

Then it was that flood after flood of passionate tears 
seemed to remove the iron cramp which had pained his 
heart. He flung himself on the floor, and as he thought 
of the irreparable cruelty which he had inflicted on a 
man who had been severe indeed, but not intentionally 
unjust to him, and of the apparent malignity to which 
all who heard it would attribute what he had done, 
he sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break. 

At one o’clock the Famulus returned with some 
dinner. He found Walter sitting at a corner of the 
room, his head resting against the angle of the wall, 
and his eyes red and inflamed with long crying. The 
morning’s meal still lay untasted on the table. 

He looked round with a commiserating glance. 
“ Come, come, Master Evson,” he said, “you’ve no call 
to give way so, sir. If you’ve done wrong, the wrong’s 
done now, and frettin’ won’t help it. There’s them 
above as’ll forgive you, and make you do better next 
time, lad, if you only knew it. Here, you must eat 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


77 


some of this dinner, Master Evson, and leave off cry in’ 
so ; cry in’s no comfort, sir.” 

He stood by and waited on Walter with the greatest 
kindness and respect, till he had seen him swallow 
some food, not without difficulty, and then with en- 
couraging and cheerful words left him, and once more 
locked the door. 

The weary afternoon wore on, and W alter sat mourn- 
fully alone with nothing but miserable thoughts— 
miserable to whatever subject he turned them, and 
more miserable the longer he dwelt on them. As the 
shades of evening drew T in he felt his head swimming, 
and the long solitude made him feel afraid as he 
wondered whether they would leave him there all 
night. And then he heard a light step approach the 
door, and a gentle tap. He made no answer, for he 
thought he knew the step, and he could not summon 
up voice to speak for a fit of sobbing which it brought 
on. Then he heard the boy stoop down, and push a 
note under the door. 

He took it up when he heard the footsteps die away, 
and by the fast-failing light was just able to make it 
out. It ran thus— 

“Dear Walter — You can’t think how sorry, how 
very very sorry I am for you. I wish I could be with 
you and take part of your punishment. Forgive me for 
being cold and proud to you. I have been longing to 
speak to you all the time, but felt too shy. It was all 
my fault. I will never break with you again. Good- 
bye, dear Walter, from your ever and truly affectionate 

“Harry Kenrick.” 

“He will never break with me again,” thought 
Walter. “ If I’m to go to-morrow I’m afraid he’ll never 
have the chance.” And then his saddest thoughts 
reverted to the home which he had left so recently for 
the first time, and to which he was to return with 
nothing but dishonor and disgrace. 

At six o’clock the kind-hearted Famulus brought 
him a lamp, some tea, and one or two books, which he 


78 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


had no heart to read. No one was allowed to visit the 
private room under heavy penalties, so that Walter 
had no other visitor until eight, when Somers, the 
monitor who had taken him to Dr. Lane, looked in 
and icily observed, “You’re to sleep in the sick room, 
Evson ; come with me.” 

“Am I expelled, Somers?” he faltered out. 

“ I don’t know,” said Somers in a freezing tone ; 
“ you deserve to be.” 

True, O lofty and pitiless Somers ! But is that all 
which you could find to say to the poor boy in his dis- 
tress ? And, if we all had our deserts . . . ? 

“At any rate,” Somers added, “I for one won’t have 
you as a fag any longer, and I shouldn’t think that 
any one else would either.” 

With which cutting remark he left Walter to his 
reflections. 



HE LAID HIS HAND ON THE BOY’S SHOULDER. 


CHAPTER THE NINTH. 

PENITENCE. 

If hearty sorrow 

Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 

I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer 
As e’er I did commit. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act. v. Sc. 4. 

Next morning Walter was reconducted to the 
private room, and there, with a kind of dull pain in 
head and heart, awaited the sentence which was to 
decide his fate. His fancy had left St. Winifred’s al- 
together ; it was solely occupied with Semlyn, and the 
dear society of home. Walter was rehearsing again 
and again in his mind the scene of his return ; what 
he should say to his father; how he should dry his 
mother’s tears ; and how he should bear himself, on 
his return, towards his little brothers and sisters. 
Would he, expelled from St. Winifred’s, ever be able to 
look any one in the face again at home ? 

While he was brooding over these fancies, someone, 

79 


80 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


breathless with haste, ran up to his room, and again 
a note was thrust underneath the door. He seized it 
quickly, and read — 

“Dear Walter — I am so glad to be the first to tell 
you that you are not to be expelled. Paton has 
begged you off. No time for more. I have slipped 
away before morning school to leave you this news, 
and can’t stay lest I should be caught. Good-bye, 
from your ever-affectionate friend, H. K.” 

The boy’s heart gave one bound of joy as he read 
this. If he were not expelled he was ready to bear 
meekly any other punishment appointed to his offence. 
But his banishment from the school would cause deep 
affliction to others besides himself, and this was why he 
had dreaded it with such a feeling of despair. 

Alone as he was in the little room, he fell on his 
knees, and heartily and humbly thanked God for this 
answer to his earnest, passionate, reiterated prayer; 
and then he read Ivenrick’s note again. 

“Paton has begged you off.” lie repeated this sen- 
tence over and over again, aloud and to himself, and 
he seemed as if he could never realize it. Paton — 
Paton, the very man whom he had so deeply and ir- 
reparably injured — had begged him off, and shielded 
him from a punishment which no one could have con- 
sidered too severe for his fault. Young and inex- 
perienced as Walter Evson was, he could not of course 
fully understand and appreciate the amount oi the loss, 
the nature and degree of the injury which he had in- 
flicted ; but yet, he could understand that he had done 
something which caused greater pain to his master 
than even the breaking of a limb, or falling ill of a severe 
sickness. And he never prayed for himself without 
praying also that Mr. Paton’s misfortune might in 
some way be alleviated; and even, impossible as the 
prayer might seem, that he, Walter, might himself 
have some share in rendering it more endurable. 

It may seem strange that Walter should be appar- 
ently excessive in his own self-condemnation. A gen- 


ST. WINIFRED’S. 


81 


erous mind usually is; but Walter, it may be urged, 
never intended to do the harm he had done. If he 
mistook the packet for a number of exercises the fault 
was comparatively venial. Comparatively — yes; for 
though it will be admitted that to break open a pri- 
vate desk and throw its contents into the fire is bad 
enough in a schoolboy under any circumstances, still 
it would be a far less aggravated sin than the wilful 
infliction of a heavy damage out of a spirit of revenge. 
But here lay the gravamen of Walter’s fault ; he knew 
— though he had not said so — in his inmost heart he 
knew that the packet did not, and could not, consist 
merely of old exercises, like the outer sheets, which 
were put to keep it clean. When he threw it into the 
fire and thrust it down until it blazed away, he felt 
sure — and at that wicked moment of indulged passion 
he rejoiced to feel sure — that what he was consuming 
was of real value. Henderson’s voice awoke in a mo- 
ment his dormant conscience; but then, however keen 
were the stings of remorse, what had been done could 
never be undone. And “ Baton had begged him off.” 
It was all the more wonderful to him, and he was all 
the more deeply grateful for it, because he knew that, 
in Mr. Paton’s views, the law of punishment for every 
offence was as a law of iron and adamant — a law as un- 
deviating and beneficial as the law of gravitation itself. 

A slow and hesitating footstep — the sound of the 
key turning in the door — a nervous hand resting on 
the handle — and Mr. Paton stood before him. 

In an instant Walter was on his knees beside him, 
his head bent over his clasped hands ; “ O sir,” he ex- 
claimed, “ please forgive me ; I have been longing to 
see you, sir, to implore you to forgive me ; for when 
you have forgiven me I shan’t mind anything else. O 
sir, forgive me, if you can.” 

“ Do you know, Evson, the extent of what you have 
done?” said Mr. Paton, in a constrained voice. 

u O sir, indeed I do,” he exclaimed, bursting into 
tears ; “ Mr. Percival said I had destroyed years and 
years of hard work; and that I can never, never, 
never make up for it, or repair it again. O sir, indeed 
6 


82 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


I didn’t know how much mischief I was doing ; I was 
in a wicked passion then, but I would give my right 
hand not to have done it now. O sir, can you ever 
forgive me?” he asked, in a tone of pitiable despair. 

“ Have you asked God’s forgiveness for your pas- 
sionate and revengeful spirit, Evson?” said the same 
constrained voice. 

“ O sir, I have, and I know God has forgiven me. 
Indeed, I never knew, I never thought before, that I 
could grow so wicked in a day. O sir, what shall I do 
to gain your forgiveness ? I would do anything, sir,” 
he said, in a voice thick with sobs; “and if you for- 
gave me, I could be almost happy.” 

All this while Walter had not dared to look up in 
Mr. Paton’s face. Abashed as lie was, he could not 
bear to meet the only look which he expected to find 
there, the old cold unpitying look of condemnation and 
reproach. Even at that moment he could not help 
thinking that if Mr. Paton had understood him better, 
he would not have seemed to him so utterly bad as 
then he must seem, with so recent an act of sin and 
folly to bear witness against him. 

He dared not look up through his eyes swimming 
with tears ; but he had not expected the kind and 
gentle touch of the trembling hand that rested on his 
head as though it blessed him, and that smoothed 
again and again his dark hair, and wiped the big drops 
away from his cheeks. He had not expected the arm 
that raised him up from his kneeling position, and the 
fingers that pushed back his hair from his forehead, 
and gently bent back his head ; or the pitying eyes, 
themselves dim, as though they were about to well 
over with compassion — that looked so sorrowfully, yet 
so kindly, into his own. He could not bear this. If 
Mr. Paton had struck him, as he did in the first 
moment of overwhelming anger, — if he had spurned 
him away, and ordered him any amount of punish- 
ment, — it would have been far easier to bear than this 
Christian gentleness ; this ready burying in pity and 
oblivion of the heaviest and most undeserved calamity 
which the master had ever undergone at the hands of 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


83 


man. Walter could not bear it; he flung himself on 
his knees again in a passion of weeping, and clasped 
Mr. Patou’s knees, uttering in broken sentences, “ I 
can never make up for it; never repair it as long as I 
live.” 

For a moment more the kind hand again rested on 
the boy’s head, and gently smoothed his dark hair; 
and then Mr. Paton found voice to speak, and lifting 
him up, said to him — 

“I forgive you, Walter; forgive you freely and 
gladly. It was hard, I own, at first to do so, for I will 
not disguise from you that this loss is a very bitter 
thing to bear. I have been sleepless, and have never 
once been able to banish the distress of mind which it 
has caused since it occurred. And yet it is a loss 
which I shall not feel fully all at once, but most and 
for many a long day when I sit down again, if God 
gives me strength to do so, to recover the lost stores 
and rearrange the interrupted thoughts. But I too 
have learnt a lesson, Walter; and when you have 
reached my age, my boy, you too, I trust, will have 
learnt to control all evil passions with a strong will, 
and to bear meekly and patiently whatever God sends. 
And you too, Walter, learn a lesson. You have said 
that you would give anything, do anything, to undo 
this wrong, or to repair it ; but you can do nothing, 
my boy, give nothing, for it cannot be undone. Wrong 
rarely can be mended. Let this very helplessness 
teach you a truth that may remain with you through 
life. Let it check you in wilful impetuous moments ; 
for what has once been done remains irrevocable. You 
may rue for years and years the work of days or of mo- 
ments, and you may newer be able to avoid the conse- 
quences, even when the deed itself has been forgotten 
by the generous and forgiven by the just.” 

And all this so kindly, so gently, so quietly spoken ; 
every word of it sank into Walter’s heart never to be 
forgotten, as his tears flowed still, but with more quiet 
sadness now. 

“ Yes,' Walter, this occurrence,” continued Mr. Paton 
in a calm, low voice, “ may do us both good, miserable 


84 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


as i.t is. I will say no more about it now, only that I 
have quite forgiven it. Man is far too mean a creature 
to be justified in withholding forgiveness for any per- 
sonal wrong. It is far more hard to forgive oneself 
when one has done wrong. I have determined to bury 
the whole matter in oblivion, and to inflict no punish- 
ment either on you or on any of the other boys who 
were concerned in this folly and sin. I will not for- 
give by halves. But, Walter, I will not wrong you by 
doubting that from this time forward you will advance 
with a marked improvement. You will have some- 
thing to bear, no doubt, but do not let it weigh on you 
too heavily ; and as for me, I will try henceforth to be 
your friend.” 

What could Walter do but seize his hand and clasp 
it earnestly, and sob out the broken incoherent thanks 
which were more eloquent than connected words. 

“And now, Walter, you are free,” said Mr. Paton. 
“ From us you will hear no more of this offence. It is 
nearly dinner time. Come ; I will walk with you to 
hall.” 

He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and they 
walked downstairs and across the court. Walter was 
deeply grateful that he did so, for he had heard from 
Croft of the scorn and indignation with which the 
news of his conduct had been received by the elder and 
more influential portions of the school. He had dreaded 
unspeakably the first occasion when it would be neces- 
sary to meet them again, but he felt that Mr. Paeon’s 
countenance and kindness had paved the way for him, 
and smoothed his most formidable trial. It had been 
beyond his warmest hopes that he should be able to 
face them so. He had never dared to expect this open 
proof that the person who had suffered chiefly from 
his act would also be the first to show that he had not 
cast him off as hopeless or worthless, but was ready to 
receive him into favor once again. 

The corridor was full of boys waiting for the dinner- 
bell, and they divided respectfully to leave a passage 
for Mr. Paton, and touched their hats as he passed 
them with ins, baud still on Walter’s shoulder, while 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


85 


Walter walked with downcast eyes beside him, not 
once daring to look up. And as the boy passed them, 
humbled and penitent, with Mr. Paton’s hand resting 
upon him, there was not one of those who saw it that 
did not learn from that sight a lesson of calm forgive- 
ness as noble and as forcible as any lesson which they 
could learn at St. Winifred’s School. 

Walter sat at dinner pale and crying, but unpitied. 
“Alas for the rarity of Christian charity under the 
sun ! ” The worst construction had assiduously been 
put upon what he had done, and nearly all the boys 
hastily condemned it, not only as an un gentlemanly, 
but also as an inexcusable and unpardonable act. One 
after another, as they passed him after dinner, they 
cut him dead. Several of the masters, including Mr. 
Percival, whom Walter had hitherto loved and re- 
spected more than any of them, because he had been 
treated by him with marked kindness, did the same. 
Walter met Mr. Percival in the playground and touched 
his cap ; Mr. Percival glanced at him for a moment, 
and then turned his head aside without noticing the 
salute. It may seem strange, but we must remember 
that to all who hear of any wrong act by report only, 
it presents itself as a mere naked fact — a bare result 
without preface or palliation. The subtle grades of 
temptation which led to it — the violent outburst of 
passion long pent up which thus found its consumma- 
tion — are unknown or forgotten, and the deed itself, 
isolated from all that rendered it possible, receives un- 
mitigated condemnation. All that any one took the 
trouble to know or to believe about Walter’s scrape 
was, that he had broken open a master’s private desk, 
and in revenge had purposely burnt a most valuable 
manuscript ; and for this, sentence was passed upon 
him broadly and in the gross. 

Poor Walter! these were dark days for him; but 
Henderson and Kenrick stuck fast by him, and little 
Arthur Eden still looked up to him with unbounded 
gratitude and affection, and he felt that the case was 
not hopeless. Kenrick indeed seemed to waver once 
or twice. He sought Walter and shook hands with 


86 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


him at once, but still he was not with him, Walter 
fancied, so much as he had been or might have been, 
till, after a short struggle, his natural impulse of gener- 
osity won the day. As for Henderson, Walter thought 
he could have died for him, so much he loved him for 
his kindness in this hour of need ; and Eden never 
left his side when he could creep there to console him 
by cheerful talk, or to be his companion when he would 
otherwise have been alone. 

The boys had been truly sorry to hear of Mr. Paton’s 
loss; it roused all their most generous feelings. That 
evening as they came out of chapel they all gathered 
round the iron gates. The intention had been to groan 
at poor Walter. He knew of it perfectly well, for 
Henderson had prepared him for it, and expressed his 
determination to walk by his side. It was for him a 
moment of keen anguish, and that anguish betrayed 
itself in his scared and agitated look. But he was 
spared this last drop in the cup of punishment. The 
mere sight of him showed the boys that he had suffered 
bitterly enough already. When they looked at him 
they had not the heart to hurt and shame him any 
more. Mr. Paton’s open forgiveness of that which had 
fallen most severely on himself changed the current of 
their feelings. Instead of groaning Walter they let 
him pass by, and waited till Mr. Paton came out of the 
chapel door, and as he walked across the court the 
boys all followed him with hearty cheers. 

Mr. Paton did not like the demonstration, although 
he appreciated the kindly and honorable motives which 
had given rise to it. lie was not a man who courted 
popularity, and this external sign of it was, as he well 
knew, the irregular expression of an evanescent feeling. 
So he took no further notice of the boys’ cheers than 
by slightly raising his cap, and by one stately inclina- 
tion of the head, and then he walked on with his usual 
quiet dignity of manner to his own rooms. But after 
this he every now and then took an opportunity to 
walk with Walter; and almost every Sunday he might 
have been seen with him pacing, after morning chapel, 
up and down the broad walk of the masters’ garden, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 87 

while Walter walked unevenly beside him, in vain 
endeavors to keep step with his long slow stride. 

A letter from Dr. Lane brought Walter’s father to 
St. Winifred’s the next day. Why dwell on their sad 
and painful meeting? But the pain of it soon wore otf 
as they interchanged that sweet and frank communion 
of thoughts and sympathies that still existed as it had 
ever done between them. They had a long, long walk 
upon the shore, and at every step Walter seemed to 
inbreathe fresh strength, and hope, and consolation, 
and Mr. Evson seemed to acquire new love for, and 
confidence in, his unhappy son, so that when in the 
evening he kissed him and said “ good-bye,” at the top 
of the same little hill where they had parted before, 
Mr. Evson felt more happily and gratefully secure of 
his radical integrity, now that the boy had acquired 
the strength which comes through trial, through fail- 
ure, and through suffering, than he had done before, 
when he left him only with the strength of early prin- 
ciple and untested innocence of heart. 

But years after, when Walter was a man, and when 
he had long been separated from all intelligence of Mr. 
Baton, there emanated from a quiet country vicarage 
a now celebrated edition of the Major Prophets; an 
edition which made the author a high reputation, and 
secured for him in the following year the Deanery of 

. And in the preface to that edition the reader 

may still find the following passage, which Walter 
even then, those long years after, could not read with- 
out a thrill of happy, yet penitent, emotion. It ran 
thus — 

“This edition of the Major Prophets has been the 
chosen work of the author’s leisure, and he is almost 
afraid to say how many of the best years of his life have 
been spent upon it. A strange fortune has happened 
to it. Years ago it was finished, it was written 
out and ready for the press. At that time it was 
burnt — no matter under what circumstances — by a 
boy’s hand. At first, the author never hoped to have 
the courage or power to resume and finish the task 
again. But it pleased God, who sent him this trial, to 


88 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


provide him also with leisure, and opportunity, and 
resolution, so that the old misfortune is now at last 
repaired. It is for the sake of one person, and one 
person only, that these private matters are intruded 
on the reader’s notice; but that person, if his eye 
should ever fall on these lines, will know also why the 
word ‘repaired’ has been printed in different letters. 
And I would also tell him with all kindness, that it 
has pleased God to bring out of the rash act of his 
boyhood nothing but good. The following commentary 
is, I humbly trust, far more worthy of its high subject, 
now that it has received the maturer consideration of 
my advancing years, than it. would have been had it 
seen the light at St. Winifred’s long ago. I write this 
for the sake of the boy who then wept for what seemed 
an irreparable fault ; and I add thankfully, that never 
for a moment have I retracted my then forgiveness ; 
that I think of his after efforts with kindliness and 
affection ; and that he has, and always will have, my 
best prayers for his interest and welfare. 

“ H. Patoit.” 



“ WHAT, YOU HERE AGAIN ? ” 


CHAPTER THE TENTH. 

UPHILL WARDS. 

But that Conscience makes me firm, 

The boon companion, who her strong breastplate 
Buckles on him that feels no guilt within, 

And bids him on and fear not. 

Dante, Inf. c. xxviii. 

“ Qui s’excuse s’accuse.” “ If a character can’t de- 
fend itself, it’s not worth defending.” “No one was 
ever written down, except by himself.” These, and 
proverbs like these, express the common and almost 
instinctive feeling, that self-defence under calumny is 
generally unsuccessful, and almost always involves a 
loss of dignity. Partly from this cause, and partly 
from penitence for his real errors, and partly from 
scorn at the malice that misrepresented him, and the 
Pharisaism of far worse offenders that held aloof from 
his misfortune, Walter said nothing to exculpate his 
conduct, or to shield himself from the silent indigna- 
tion, half real and half affected, which weighed heavily 
against him. 

The usual consequences followed; the story of his 
misdoing was repeated and believed in the least miti- 
gated form, and this version gained credence and 
89 


90 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


currencjr because it was uncontradicted. The school 
society bound his sin upon him ; they retained it, and 
it was retained. It burdened his conscience with a 
galling weight, because by his fellows it remained 
long unforgiven. At the best, those were days of fiery 
trial to that overcharged young heart. He had not 
only lost all immediate influence, but as he looked 
forward through the vista of his school life, he feared 
that he should never regain it. Even if he should in 
time become a monitor, he felt as if half his authority 
must be lost while this stigma was branded so deeply 
on his name. 

Yet it was a beautiful sight to see how bravely 
and manfully this young boy set himself to re-estab- 
lish the reputation he had destroyed, and since he 
could not “build upon the foundations of yester- 
day,” to build upon its ruins. It was beautiful to see 
with what touching humility he accepted undeserved 
scorn, and with what touching gratitude he hailed the 
scantiest kindness ; to see how he bore up unflinch- 
ingly under every difficulty, accepted his hard position 
among unsympathizing schoolfellows, and made the 
most of it, without anger and without complaint. He 
could see in after years that those days were to him a 
time of unmitigated blessing. They taught him lessons 
of manliness, of endurance, of humility. The necessity 
of repairing an error and recovering from a failure be- 
came to him a more powerful stimulus than the hope 
of avoiding blame altogether. The hour of punish- 
ment, which was bitter as absinthe to his taste, became 
sweet as honey in his memory. Above all, these days 
taught him, in a manner never to be forgotten, the 
invaluable lesson that the sense of having done an ill 
deed is the very heaviest calamity that an ill deed en- 
sures, and that in life there is no secret of happiness 
comparable to the certain blessing brought with it by 
a conscience void of all offence. 

Perhaps the strain would have been too great for his 
youthful spirits, and might have left on his character 
an impress of permanent melancholy, derived from thus 
perpetually being reminded that he had gone wrong, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


91 


but for a school sermon which Mr. Paton preached about 
this time, and which Walter felt was meant in part 
for him. It was on the danger and unwisdom of brood- 
ing continually on what is over ; and it was preached 
upon the text, “ I will restore to you the years which 
the locust hath eaten, the cankerworm, the caterpillar, 
and the palmerworm, my great army.” “ The past is 
past,” said the preacher ; “ its sins and sorrows are 
irrevocably over; why dwell upon it now? Do not 
waste the present, with all its opportunities, in a hope- 
less and helpless retrospect. The worst of us need not 
despair, much less those who may have been betrayed 
into sudden error by some moment of unguarded pas- 
sion . There lies the future before you ; — onwards then, 
and forwards ! it is yet an innocent, it may be a happy 
future. Take it with prayerful thankfulness, and fling 
the withered part aside. Thus, although thus only, 
can you recover your neglected opportunities. Do this 
in hope and meekness, and God will make up to you 
for the lost past; He who inhabiteth eternity will 
stretch forth out of His eternity a forgiving hand, and 
touch into green leaf again the years which the locust 
hath eaten.” How eagerly Walter Evson drank in 
those words ! That day at least he felt that man doth 
not live by bread alone, but by every word that pro- 
ceedeth out of the mouth of God. 

If Walter had been old enough to be an observer of 
character, he might have gathered out of his difficulties 
the materials for some curious notes on the manner in 
which he was treated by different boys. Many, like 
Harpour and Cradock, made, of course, no sort of differ- 
ence in their behavior towards him, because they set 
up no pretence of condemnation ; others, like Anthony 
and Franklin, had been nearly as bad as himself in the 
matter, and therefore their relations to him remained 
quite unaltered. But there were many boys who, like 
Jones, either cut him or were cold to him, not because 
they really felt any moral anger at a fault which was 
much less heinous in reality than many which they 
daily committed, but because he was, for the time, 
unpopular, and they did not care to be seen with an 


92 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


unpopular boy. On the other hand, through a feeling 
which at the time they could not understand, a few of 
the very best boys, some of the wisest, the steadiest, 
and noblest, seemed drawn to him by some new tie ; 
and in a very short time he began to know friends 
among them in whose way he might not otherwise 
have been thrown. Daubeny, for instance, than whom, 
although the boys chose to make him something of a 
butt, there was no more conscientious fellow at St. 
Winifred’s, sought Walter out on every possible occa- 
sion, and when they were alone spoke to him, in his 
gentle and honest way, many a cheering and kindly 
word. Another friend of this sort (whom Walter 
already knew slightly through Ken rick, who was in 
the form below him), was a boy named Power. There 
was something in Power most attractive ; his clear 
eyes, and innocent expression of face, his unvarying 
success in all school competitions, his quiet and grace- 
ful manners, even the coldness and reserve which made 
him stand somewhat aloof from most boys, mixing 
with very few of them, firmly and unobtrusively as- 
suming an altogether higher tone than theirs, and be- 
stowing his confidence and friendship on hardly any — 
all tended to make him a marked character, and to 
confer on his intimacy an unusual value. Walter, to 
whom as yet he had hardly spoken, thought him self- 
centred and reserved, and yet saw something to admire 
even in his exclusiveness ; he felt that he could have 
liked him much, but, as he was several forms lower 
than Power, he never expected to become one of his 
few associates. But during his troubles Power so 
openly showed that he regarded him with respect and 
kindness, and was so clearly the first to make ad- 
vances, that Walter gladly and gratefully accepted the 
proffered friendship. 

It happened thus : One day, about a month after his 
last escapade, Walter was strolling alone, as he often 
did, upon the shore. The shore was very dear to him. 
I almost pity a boy whose school is not by the seaside, 
lie found on the shore both companionship and occu- 
pation. He never felt lonely there. He could sit there 


urn* 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


93 



by the hour, either in calm or storm, watching the sea- 
birds dip their wings which flashed in the sunlight, as 
they pounced down on some unwary fish ; or listening 
to the silken rustle and sweet monotony of the waves 
plashing musically upon the yellow sands on some fine 
day. On this evening the tide was coming in, and 

Walter had 
amused himself 
by standing on 
some of the 
lumps of granite 
tossed about the 
shore until the 
advancing waves 
encroached upon 
and surrounded 
his little island, 
and gave him 
just room to 
jump to land. 
He was standing 
on one of these 
great stones 
watching the 
sunset, and 
laughing to him- 
self at the odd 
gambols of two 
or three porpoises 
that kept rolling about 
in a futile manner 
across the little bay, when he 
a pleasant voice say to 

him — 

“ I say, Evson, are you going 
to practise the old style of martyrdom— tie yourself 
to a stake and let the tide gradually drown you?” 

Looking round he was surprised to see Power stand- 
ing alone on the sands, and to see also that his little 
island was so far surrounded that he could not get to 
shore without being wet up to the knees. 


94 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


“ Hallo ! ” he said ; “ I see I must take off my shoes 
and stockings, and wade.” 

But on the slippery piece of rock upon which he was 
standing he had no room to do this without losing his 
balance and tumbling over; so Power had in a moment 
taken off his own shoes and stockings, turned up his 
trousers above the knees, and waded up to him. 

“ Now,” he said, “get on my back and I’ll carry you 
in unwetted.” 

“ Thanks, Power,” he said, as Power deposited him 
on the sand ; “ I’m much obliged.” 

Not knowing whether Power would like to be seen 
with him or not, he looked at him shyly, and was walk- 
ing off in another direction, when Power, who was 
putting on his stockings again, said to him playfully — 

“What, Walter; haven’t you the grace to wait for 
me, after my having delivered you from a wetting? 
Excuse my calling you Walter; I hear Kenrick and 
Henderson do it, and somehow you’re one of those 
fellows whom one meets now and then, whose Chris- 
tian name seems to suit them more naturally than the 
other.” 

“ By all means call me Walter, Power; and I’ll wait 
for you gladly if you like,” said Walter, blushing as 
he added, “ I thought you might not like to walk with 
me.” 

“Not like? Nonsense! I should like it particu- 
larly. Let’s take a turn along the shore ; we shall just 
have time before roll-call.” 

Walter pointed out to him the droll porpoises which 
had absorbed his attention, and while they stood look- 
ing and laughing at them, Henderson came up un- 
observed, and patting Walter on the back, observed 
poetically — 

“Why are your young hearts sad, oh beautiful children of 
morning ? 

Why do your young eyes gaze timidly over the sea ? ” 


“ Where did you crib that quotation from, Flip,” 
asked Power, laughing ; “ your mind’s like a shallow 


ST. WINIFRED' S. * 95 

brook, and the color of it always shows the stratum 
through which you have been flowing last.” 

“ Shallow brook, quotha ? ” said Henderson ; “ a deep 
and mighty river, sir, you mean; irresistible by any 
Power.” 

“Oh, do shut up ! Why was I born with a name 
that could be punned on ? N'o more puns, Flip, if you 
love me,” said Power ; and they all three walked under 
the Norman archway that formed the entrance to the 
school. 

“ By the powers,” said Henderson to Walter, as the 
other left them, “you have got a new friend worth 
having, Walter. He doesn’t make himself at home 
with every one, I can tell you ; and if he and Dubbs 
cultivate you, I should think it’s about time for any 
one else to be ashamed of cutting you, my boy.” 

“I’m quite happy now,” said Walter; “with you 
and Kenrick and him for friends. I don’t care so 
much for the rest. I wonder why he likes me ? ” 

“ Well, because he thinks the fellows a great deal 
too hard on you, for one thing. How very good and 
patient you’ve been, Walter, under it all.” 

“ It is hard sometimes, Flip, but I deserve it. Only 
now and then I’m afraid that you and Ken will get 
quite tired of me, I’ve so few to speak to. Harpour 
and that lot would be glad enough that I should join 
them, I know, and but for you and Ken I should have 
been driven to do it.” 

“Never mind, Walter, my boy; the fellows’ll come 
round in time.” 

So, step by step, with the countenance of some true 
and worthy friends, and by the help of a stout and 
uncorrupted heart, by penitence and by kindliness, did 
our brave young hero win his way. He was helped, 
too, greatly, by his achievements in the games. At 
football he played with a vigor and earnestness which 
carried everything before it. He got several bases, 
and was the youngest boy in the school who ever suc- 
ceeded in doing this. Gradually but surely his tem- 
porary unpopularity gave way; and even before he 
began to be generally noticed again, he bade fair ulti- 


96 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


mately to gain a high position in the estimation of all 
his schoolfellows. 

There was one scene which he long remembered, 
and which was very trying to go through. One fine 
afternoon the boys’ prize for the highest jump was to 
be awarded, and as the school were all greatly inter- 
ested in the competition, they were assembled in a 
dense circle in the green play-ground, leaving space 
for the jumpers in the middle. The fine weather had 
also tempted nearly all the inhabitants of St. Winifred 
to be spectators of the contest, and numbers of ladies 
were present, for whom the boys had politely left a 
space within the circle. When the chief jumping prize 
had been won by an active fellow in the sixth form,, 
another prize was proposed for all boys under 
fifteen. 

Bliss, Franklin, and two other boys, at once stepped 
into the circle as competitors, and threw off their 
jackets. 

“ You must go in for this, Walter,” said Henderson. 
“ You’re sure to get it.” 

“Not I. I won’t go in, Flip,” said Walter, who was 
naturally in a desponding mood, as he looked round on 
those four hundred faces, and saw among them all 
scarcely one sympathizing glance. “ You go in and 
win. And never mind talking to me up here, Hender- 
son ^ it can’t be pleasant for you, I know, when all the 
other fellows are cutting me.” 

“ Pooh ! Walter. They're in the wrong box ; not you 
and I. ‘Athanasius contra mundum,’ as Power says. 
Do go in for the prize.” 

Walter shook his head gloomily. “I don’t like to 
before all these fellows. They’d hiss me or some- 
thing.” 

“ Well, if you won’t, / won’t ; that’s flat.” 

“Oh, do, Henderson. Pm sure you’d get it. Don’t 
ask me to go in, that’s a good fellow.” 

“None but these four going in for the little jump? 
What, only four?” said one of the young athletes who 
carried small blue flags and arranged the preliminaries. 

Come in, some more of you.” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


97 


“ Here are two more,” said Henderson ; “ stick down 
our names — Henderson and Evson ; ” and pulling 
Walter forward with him inside the circle, he sat down 
and began to take off his shoes, that he might run and 
jump more easily on the turf. 

Thus prominently mentioned, Walter could hardly 
draw back, so putting the best face on it he could, he, 
too, flung off his jacket and shoes. 

The movable spar of wood over which the boys 
jumped was first put at a height of three feet, which 
they could all easily manage, and the six, one after 
another, cleared it lightly. Even then, however, it was 
pretty easy to judge by their action which was the 
best jumper, and the connoisseurs on the field at once 
decided that the chance lay between Henderson and 
Walter ; Walter was by far the more active and grace- 
ful jumper, but Henderson had the advantage of being 
a little the taller of the two. 

The spar was raised half an inch each time, and 
when it had attained the height of three feet and a 
half, two of the candidates failed to clear it after three 
trials. 

Bliss was the next to break down. His awkward 
jumps had excited a great deal of laughter, and when 
he finally failed, Henderson found time even then to 
begin a line or two of his monody on Blissidas, which 
was a standing joke against poor Bliss, who always 
met it by the same invariable observation of “ I’ll lick 
you afterwards, Flip.” 

Only three competitors were now left — Franklin, 
Henderson, and Walter — and they jumped on steadily 
till they had reached the height of four feet and one 
inch, and then Franklin broke down, but recovered 
himself in the second chance. 

The struggle now became very exciting, and as 
Franklin and Henderson again cleared the bar at the 
height of four feet four, each of them was loudly 
clapped. But Walter— who jumped last always, 
because he had been the last candidate to come forward 
— although he cleared it with an easy bound, received 
no sign of encouragement from any of the boys. He 
7 


98 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


cleared it in perfect silence, only broken by Mr. Paton, 
who was looking on with a group of other masters, and 
who said encouragingly — “Very well done, Evson ; 
capital ! ” 

The bar was raised an inch, and again the three boys 
cleared it, and again the first two were greeted with 
applause, and Walter was left unnoticed except by 
Power and Kenrick, who applauded him heartily, and 
patted him on the back. But indeed their clapping 
only served to throw into stronger relief the loud 
applause which the others received. Walter almost 
wished that they would desist. He was greatly agi- 
tated; and his friends saw that he was trembling with 
emotion. He had been much mortified the first time 
to be thus pointedly scorned in so large a crowd of 
strangers, and made a marked object of reprobation 
before them all ; but that this open fehame should be 
thus steadily and continuously put upon him, made his 
heart swell with sorrow and indignation at the un- 
generous and unforgiving spirit of his schoolfellows. 

Once more the bar was raised an inch. The other 
two got over it amid a burst of applause, and this 
time Walter, who was unnerved by the painful circum- 
stances in which he found himself, brushed against it 
as he came over, and knocked it off. The bar was re- 
placed, and at his second trial (for three were allowed) 
lie jumped so well that he flew easily over it. Always 
before, a boy who had recovered himself after a failure 
had been saluted with double cheering, but again 
Walter’s proceedings were observed by that large 
crowd in dead silence, while he could not help over- 
hearing the whispered queries which asked an expla- 
nation of so unusual a circumstance. 

“ Why don’t they cheer him as well as the others? ” 
asked a fair young girl of her brother. 6< He looks 
such a nice boy.” 

“ Because he did a very shabby thing not long ago,” 
was the reply. 

He could stand it no longer. He glanced round at 
the speakers more in sorrow than in anger, and then, 
instead of returning to the starting-point, he turned 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 99 

hastily aside, and, declining the contest, plunged into 
the thickest of the crowd. 

“ Evson’s giving it up. What a pity ! ” said several 
boys. 

“ No wonder lie’s giving it up,” said Power indig- 
nantly, “after the way you fellows treat him. Never 
mind them, Walter,” he said, taking him by the arm; 
“ they will be ashamed of themselves by and by.” 

“ You’re not going to withdraw, Evson ? ” asked one 
of the chief athletes, in a kind tone. 

“Yes,” said Walter, retiring still farther to hide 
himself amid the crowd. 

“Nonsense!” said Henderson, who had heard the 
answer; “come, Walter, it’ll spoil all the fun if you 
don’t go on.” 

“I can’t, Flip,” said Walter, turning aside, and 
hastily brushing away the bears which would come into 
his eyes. 

“Do, Walter; they all wish it,” whispered Hender- 
son ; “ be brave, and get the prize in spite of all ; here’s 
Paton coming round ; I’m sure it’s to cheer you up.” 

“Very well, Flip, I will, if it pleases you ; but it’s 
rather hard,” he said, fairly bursting into tears. “ Re- 
member it’s only for your sake I do it, Flip.” 

“Go on, Walter; don’t give way,” said Mr. Paton 
aloud, in his gentlest and most encouraging voice, as 
the boy hastily re-entered the arena, and took his 
place. 

This time Franklin finally broke down, Henderson 
barely scrambled over, and Walter, nerved by excite- 
ment and indignation, cleared the bar by a brilliant 
flying leap. There was no mistake about the applause 
this time. The boys had seen how their coolness had 
told on him. They were touched by the pluck he 
showed in spite of his dejected look, and as though to 
make up for their former deficiency, they clapped him 
as loud as either of the others. 

And now a spirited contest began between Hender- 
son and Walter. Four feet six and a half they both 
accomplished — Walter the first time, and Henderson 
the third. When Henderson, at his last trial, barely 


100 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


succeeded, a loud shout rose from the field, quite en- 
thusiastic enough to show that the wishes of the school 
were on his side. This decided Walter, for he too was 
anxious that Henderson, who had set his heart upon 
the prize, and was now quite eager with emulation, 
should be the successful competitor. At four feet 
seven, therefore, he meant to break down, but, at the 
same time, to clear the bar so nearly each time of trial, 
that it might not be obvious to any one that he was not 
putting forth his best strength. The first time, how- 
ever, he jumped so carelessly, that Henderson suspected 
his purpose, and, therefore, the second time he exerted 
himself a little more, and, to his own astonishment, ac- 
complished the leap without having intended to do so. 
Henderson also just succeeded in managing it, and as 
Walter refused to try another half inch, the prize was 
declared, amid loud cheers, to be equally divided 
between them, after the best competition that ever had 
been known. 

The boys and the spectators now moved off to the 
pavilion, where the prizes were to be distributed by 
Mrs. Lane. But when Walter’s name was called out 
with Henderson’s, the latter only stepped forward. 
Walter had disappeared; and the boys were again 
made to feel, by his voluntary absence, what bitterness 
of heart their unkind conduct caused him. 

Henderson took the prize for his friend, when he 
received his own. The prizes were a silver-mounted 
riding- whip, and a belt with a silver clasp, and Mrs. 
Lane told Henderson that she was sorry for the other 
victor’s absence, and that either of them might choose 
whichever prize he liked best. When the crowd had 
dispersed, Henderson, knowing Walter’s haunts, 
strolled with Kenrick to a little fir-grove on the slope 
of Bardlyn Hill, not far above the sea. Here, as they 
expected, they found Walter. He was sitting in a 
listless attitude, with his back towards them, and he 
started as he heard their footsteps. 

“You let yourself be beaten, Evson Walter, 

And afterwards you proved a base defaulter,” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


101 


said Henderson, who was in high spirits, as he clapped 
his hands on Walter’s shoulders, and continued — 

‘ ‘ Behold I bring you now the silver prizes, 

Meant to reward your feets and exercises.” 

Even Walter could not help smiling at this sally, 
but he said at once, “You must keep both prizes, 
Flip; I don’t mean to take either — indeed I won’t; I 
shouldn’t have gone in at all but for you.” 

“Oh, do take one,” said Kenrick; “the fellows will 
think you too proud if you don’t.” 

“ I don’t care what they think of me, Ken ; you saw 
how they treated me. Flip, I’d take the prize in a 
minute to please you, but, indeed, it would only remind 
me constantly of this odious jumping, and I’d much 
rather not.” 

“I can’t take both prizes, Walter,” said Henderson. 

“Well, I’ll tell you what — give one to Franklin; he 
jumped very well, and he’s not half a bad fellow. 
Don’t press me, Flip ; I can’t refuse you anything if 
you do, because you’ve been so very, very kind ; but 
you don’t know how wretched I feel.” 

Henderson, who had looked annoyed, cleared up in a 
moment. 

“All right, Walter; it shall be as you like; 
Franklin shall have it. You’ve had quite enough to 
bear already. So, cheer up, and come along.” 

It was soon known in the school how Walter had 
yielded the prize to Franklin, and it was known, too, 
that next day he had gone to jump with Henderson, 
Franklin, and some others, and had leaped higher than 
any of them had been able to do. The boys admired 
his conduct throughout ; and from that day forward 
many were as anxious to renew an acquaintance with 
him, as they had previously been to break it off. 

And there was an early opportunity of testing this; 
for a few days after the scene just described the 
champion race for boys under fifteen was tried for, 
and when Walter won it by accomplishing the dis- 
tance in the shortest time that had yet been known, 


102 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and by distancing the other runners, he was received 
with a cheer, which was all the more hearty because 
the boys were anxious to do him a tardy justice. If 
Walter had not been too sensible to be merely pat- 
ronized and too reserved to be “ hail-fellow-well-met ” 
with every one, he would have fallen more easily and 
speedily into the position which he now slowly but 
honorably recovered. 

It need hardly be said that, in his school-work, 
Walter struggled with all his might to give satisfac- 
tion to Mr. Paton, and to spare him from all pain. 
There was something really admirable in the way he 
worked, and taxed himself even beyond his strength, 
to prove his regret for Mr. Paton’s loss, by doing all 
that was required of him. Naturally quick and lively 
as he was, he sat as quiet and attentive in school as if 
he had been gifted with a disposition as unmercurial as 
that of Daubeny himself. In order to make sure of 
his lessons, he went over them with Henderson (who 
entered eagerly into his wishes) with such care, that 
they, both of them, astonished themselves with their 
own improving progress. If they came to any insu- 
perable difficulties, Kenrick or Power gladly helped 
them, and explained everything to them with that 
sympathetic clearness of instruction which makes one 
boy the best teacher to another. The main difficulty 
still continued to be the repetition, and grammar rules ; 
but in order to know them, at least by rote, Walter 
would get up with the earliest gleam of daylight, or 
would put on his trousers and waistcoat after bed- 
time, and go and sit, book in hand, under the gaslight 
in the passage. This was hard work, doubtless ; but 
it brought its own reward in successful endeavor and 
an approving conscience. Under this discipline his 
memory rapidly grew retentive ; no difficulty can stand 
the assaults of such batteries as these, and Walter 
was soon free from all punishments, and as happy 
as the day was long. 

One little cloud alone remained — the continued and 
obvious displeasure of his tutor, and one or two of Mr. 
Paton’s chief friends among the masters. One of these 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


103 


was Mr. Edwards, who, among; other duties, had the 
management of the chapel choir. But at length Mr. 
Edwards gave him a distinguished proof of his return- 
ing respect. He sat near Walter in chapel, and the 
hymn happened to be one which came closely home to 
Walter’s heart after his recent troubles. This made 
him join with great feeling in the singing, and the 
choirmaster was struck with the strength and rare 
sweetness of his voice. As he left the chapel, Mr. 
Edwards said to him, “ Evson, there is a vacancy for a 
treble in the choir; I heard you sing in chapel to-day, 
and I think that you would supply the place very well. 
Should you like to join?” 

Walter very gladly accepted the offer ; partly because 
he hailed the opportunity of learning a little about 
music, and because the choir boys were allowed several 
highly-valued and exceptional privileges ; but chiefly 
because they were always chosen by the masters with 
express reference to character, and therefore the invi- 
tation to join their number was the clearest proof that 
could be given him that the past was condoned. 

The last to offer him the right hand of forgiveness, 
but the best and warmest friend to him when once he 
had done so, was Mr. Percival. He still passed him 
with only the coldest and most distant recognition, for 
he not only felt Mr. Paton’s loss with peculiar sorrow, 
but was also vexed and disappointed that a boy whose 
character he had openly defended should have proved 
so unworthy of his encomium. It happened that the 
only time that Walter was ever again sent to detention 
was for a failure in a long lesson, including much 
which had been learnt on the morning that he was out 
of school, which, in consequence, he found it impos- 
sible, with all his efforts, to master. Mr. Paton saw 
how mortified and pained he was to fail, and when he 
sent him to detention, most kindly called him up, and 
told him that he saw the cause of his unsuccess, and 
was notin theleast displeased at it, although, as he had 
similarly punished other boys, he could not make any 
exception to the usual rule of punishment. On this 
occasion, it was again Mr. Percival’s turn to sit with 


104 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


the detenus, and seeing Walter among them, he too 
hastily concluded that he was still continuing a career 
of disgrace. 

“What! you here again?” he said with chilling 
scorn, as he passed the seat where Walter sat writing. 
“ After what has happened, I should have been ashamed 
to be sent here, if I were you.” 

After his days and nights of toil, after his long, 
manly struggle to show his penitence, after his heavy 
and disproportionate punishment, it was hard to be so 
addressed by one whom he respected, in the presence 
of all the idlest in the school, and in consequence of a 
purely accidental and isolated failure. Walter looked 
up with an appealing look in his dark blue eyes ; but 
Mr. Percival had passed on, and he bent his head over 
his paper with the old sense that the past could never 
be forgotten, the recollection of his disgrace never ob- 
literated. No one was observing him ; and as the feel- 
ing of despair grew in him a large tear dropped down 
upon his paper ; he wiped it quietly away, and con- 
tinued writing, but another and another fell, and he 
could not help it. For Mr. Percival was almost the only 
master whose good will he very strongly coveted, and 
whose approval he was most anxious to obtain. 

When next Mr. Percival stopped and looked at Wal- 
ter, he saw that his words had wounded him to the 
heart, and knew well why the boy’s lines were blurred 
and blotted, when he showed them up with a timid 
hand and downcast look. 

lie was touched. “I have been too hard on you, 
Evson,” he said. “I see it now. Come to tea with 
me after chapel this evening ; I want to speak with 
you.” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


105 


CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. 

HAPPIER HOURS. 

Sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the 
devil bid you. — Othello , Act i. Sc. i. 

When chapel was over, Walter, having brushed his 
hair, and made himself rather neater and more spruce 
than a schoolboy usually is toward the close of a long 
half, went to Mr. Percival’s room. Mr. Percival hav- 
ing been detained, had not yet come in ; but Henderson, 
Kenrick, and Power, who had also been asked to tea, 
were there waiting for him when Walter arrived, and 
Henderson was, as usual, amusing the others and him- 
self with a flood of mimicry and nonsense. 

“You know that mischievous little Penkridge?” 
said Kenrick; “he nearly had an accident this morn- 
ing. We were in the classroom, and Edwards was com- 
plaining of the bad smell of the room ” 

“Bad smell! ” interrupted Henderson ; “I’ll bet you 
what you like Edwards didn’t say bad smell. lids not 
the man to call a spade a spade ; he calls it an agricul- 
tural implement for the trituration of the soil.” 

“ Why, what should he say ?” asked Kenrick, “if he 
didn’t say 4 bad smell ? ” 

“ Why, 4 What a malodorous effluvium ! ’ ” said 
Henderson, imitating exactly the master’s somewhat 
drawling tone; 44 4 what a con-cen-trra-ted malarious 

miasma ; what an unendurable ’ I say, Power, 

give us the Greek, or Hebrew or Kamschatkan for 
‘smell.’ ” 

“"Odwdyj” suggested Power. 


106 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ That’s it to a T,” said Henderson ; “ I bet you he 
observed, “ What an un-en-duu-rrable odudrj.” Now, 
didn’t he ? confess the truth.” 

“ Well, I believe he did say something of the kind,” 
said Kenrick, laughing ; “ at least I know he called it 
Stygian and Tartarean. But, as I was saying, he set 
Penkridge (who happened to be going round with the 
lists) to examine the cupboards, and see if by chance some 
inopportune rat had died there ; and Penkridge, open- 
ing one of them where the floor was very rotten, and 
poking about with his foot, knocked a great piece of 
plaster off the schoolroom ceiling, and was as nearly as 
possible putting his foot through it.” 

“Fancy if he had,” said Walter, “how astonished 
we should have been down below. I say, Henderson, 
what icould Paton have said ? ” 

“Oh! Paton,” said Henderson, delighted with any 
opportunity for mimicry, “he’d have whispered qui- 
etly, in an emotionless voice, ‘ Penkridge, Penkridge, 
come here — come here, Penkridge. This is a very un- 
usual method, Penkridge, of entering a room — highly 
irregular. If you haven’t broken your leg or your 
arm, Penkridge, you must write me two hundred 
lines.’ ” 

“And Robertson?” asked Kenrick. 

“ Oh ! Robertson — he’d have put up his eyeglass,” 
said Henderson, again exactly hitting off the master’s 
attitude, “and he’d have observed, ‘Ah! Penkridge 
has fallen through the floor ; probably fractured some 
bones. Slippery fellow, he won’t be able to go to the 
Fighting Cocks this afternoon, at any rate.’ Where- 
upon Stevens would have gone up to him with the ut- 
most tenderness, and asked him if he was hurt; and 
Penkridge, getting up, would, by way of gratitude, have 
grinned in his face.” 

“ Well, you’d better finish the scene,” said Power ; 

“ what would Percival have said? ” 

“ Tlmnder-and-lightning ? Oh ! that’s easy to de- . 
cide ; he’d have made two or three quotations ; he’d 
have immediately called the attention of the form to the 
fact that Penkridge had been ‘ flung by angry Jove 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


107 


‘ Sheer o’er the crystal battlements ; from morn 
Till noon he fell, from noon till dewy eve ; 

A winter’s day, and as the tea-bell rang, 

Shot from the ceiling like a falling star 
On the great schoolroom floor.’ ” 


“Would he, indeed?” said Mr. Percival, pinching 
Henderson’s ear, as he came in just in time to join in the 
laugh which this parody occasioned. 

Tea at St. Winifred’s is a regular and recognized in- 
stitution. There are few nights on which some of the 
•boys do not adjourn after chapel to tea at the masters’ 
houses, when they have the privilege of sitting up an 
hour and a half later. The masters generally adopt 
this method of seeing their pupils and the boys in 
whom they are interested. The institution works 
admirably ; the first and immediate result of it is, that 
there boys and masters are more intimately acquainted, 
and being so, are on warmer and friendlier terms with 
each other than perhaps at any other school — certainly 
on warmer terms than if they never met except in the 
still and punishment-pervaded atmosphere of the 
schoolrooms ; and the second and remoter result is, 
that not only in the matter of work already alluded to, 
but also in other and equally important particulars, the 
tone and character of St. Winifred’s boys is higher and 
purer than it would otherwise be. There is a sim- 
plicity and manliness there which cannot fail to bring 
forth its rich fruits of diligence, truthfulness, and 
honor. Many are the boys who have come from thence, 
who, in the sweet yet sober dignity of their life and 
demeanor, go far to realize the beautiful ideal of Chris- 
tian boyhood. Many are the boys there who are walk- 
ing, through the gates of humility and diligence, to cer- 
tain, and merited, and conspicuous honor. 

I know that there are many who believe in none of 
these things, and care not for them ; who repudiate 
the necessity and duty of early godliness ; who set up 
no ideal at all, because to do so would expose them to 
the charge of sentiment or enthusiasm, a charge which 
they dread more than that of villainy itself. These 


108 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


men regard the heart as a muscle consisting of four 
cavities, called respectively the auricles and the ven- 
tricles, and useful for no other purpose but to propel 
the blood; all other meanings of the word they 
despise or ignore. They regard the world not as a 
scene of probation, not as a passage to a newer and 
higher life, but as a ‘ convenient feeding trough ’ for 
every low passion and unworthy impulse; as a place 
where they can build on the foundation of universal 
scepticism a reputation for superior ability. This deg- 
radation of spirit, this premature cynicism, this angry 
sneering at a tone superior to their own, this addiction 
to a low and lying satire, which is the misbegotten 
child of envy and disbelief, has infected our literature 
to a deplorable and almost hopeless extent. It might 
be sufficient to leave it, in all its rottenness and infla- 
tion, to every good man’s silent scorn, if it had not 
also so largely tainted the intellect of the young. If, 
in popular papers or magazines, boys are to read that, 
in a boy, lying is natural and venial ; that courtesy 
to, and love for, a master, is impossible or hypocriti- 
cal ; that swearing and corrupt communication are pec- 
cadilloes which none but preachers and pedagogues 
regard as discreditable, — how can we expect success 
to the labors of those who toil all their lives, amid 
neglect and ingratitude, to elevate the boys of Eng- 
land to a higher and holier view ? I have seen this 
taint of atheistic disregard for sin poison article after 
article, and infuse its bitter principle into many a 
young man’s heart ; and worse than this — adopted as 
it is by writers whom some consider to be mighty in 
intellect and leaders of opinion, I have seen it corrode 
the consciences and degrade the philosophy of far better 
and far worthier men. 

It is a solemn duty to protest, with all the force of 
heart and conscience, against this dangerous gospel of 
sin, this “ giving to manhood’s vices the privilege of 
boyhood.” It was not the gospel taught at St. Wini- 
fred’s ; there we were taught that we were baptized 
Christian boys, that the seal of God’s covenant was 
on our foreheads, that the oath of His service was on 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


109 


our consciences, that we were His children, and the 
members of His Son, and the inheritors of His king- 
dom ; that His laws were our safeguard, and that our 
bodies were the temples of His Spirit. We were not 
taught — that was left for the mighty intellects of this 
age to discover — that as we were boys, a Christian 
principle and a Christian standard were above our 
comprehension, and alien from our possible attain- 
ments ; we did not believe then, nor will I now, that a 
clear river is likely to flow from a polluted stream, or 
a good tree grow from bitter fibres and cankered roots. 

Walter and the others spent a very happy evening 
with Mr. Percival. When tea was over they talked 
as freely with him and with each other in his presence, 
as they would have done among themselves ; and the 
occasional society of their elders and superiors was in 
every way good for them. It enlarged their sympa- 
thies, widened their knowledge, and raised their moral 
tone. 

Among many other subjects that evening they 
talked over one which never fails to interest deeply 
every right-minded boy — I mean their homes. It was 
no wonder that, as Walter talked of the glories of 
Semlyn Lake and its surrounding hills, his face lighted 
up, and his eyes shone with pleasant memories. Mr. 
Percival, as he looked at him, felt more puzzled than 
ever at his having gone wrong, and more confirmed than 
ever in the opinion that he had been hard and unjust 
to him of late, and that his original estimate of him 
was the right one after all. 

Power’s home was a statelier one than Walter’s. 
His father, Sir Lawrence Power, was a baronet, the 
owner of broad acres, whose large and beautiful man- 
sion stood on one of the undulations in a park shadowed 
by ancestral trees, under whose boughs the deer fed 
with their fawns around them. Through the park 
flowed a famous river, of which the windings were 
haunted by herons and kingfishers, and the pleasant 
waters abounded in trout and salmon. And to this 
estate and title Power was heir; though of course he 
did not tell them this while he spoke of the lovely 


110 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


scenery around the home where his fathers had so 
long lived. 

Henderson, again, was the son of a rich merchant, 
who had two houses — one city and one suburban. He 
was a regular little man of the world. After the holi- 
days he had always seen the last feats of Saltori, and 
heard the most recent strains of Tiralirini. He always 
went to a round of entertainments, and would make 
you laugh by the hour while he sang the songs or 
imitated the style of the last comic actor or Ethiopian 
minstrel. 

While they were chatting over their holiday amuse- 
ments and occupations, Kenrick said little ; and, won- 
dering at his silence, Mr. Percival asked him in what 
part of the world he lived. 

“ I, sir ? ” he said, as though awakened from a 
reverie; “oh, I live at Fusby, a village on the border 
of the fens, and in the very middle of the heavy clays.” 
And Kenrick turned away his head. 

“Don’t abuse the clay,” said Walter, to cheer him 
up ; “ I’m very fond of the clay ; it produces good roses 
and good strawberries — and those are the two best 
things going, in any soil.” 

“Half-past ten, youngsters,” said Mr. Percival, hold- 
ing up his watch; “off with you to bed. Let your- 
selves in through the grounds ; here’s the key. Good- 
night to you. Walter,” he said, calling him back as 
he was about to leave, “one word with you alone; 
you three wait for him a moment outside. I wanted 
to tell you that, although I have seemed harsh to you, 
I daresay, of late, yet now I hear that you are making 
the most honorable efforts, and I have quite forgotten 
the past. My good opinion of you, Walter, is quite 
restored ; and whenever you want to be quiet to learn 
your lessons, you may always come and sit in my room.” 

Mr. Percival was not the only St. Winifred’s master 
who thus generously abridged his own leisure and pri- 
vacy to assist the boys in whom he felt an interest. 
Walter thanked him with real gratitude, and rejoined 
the other three. “ He’s let me sit in his room,” said 
Walter. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. Ill 

“Has he?” said Henderson ; “so he has me. How 
jolly ! we shall get on twice as well.” 

“ What’s that?” said Power, pointing upwards, as 
they walked through the garden to their house door. 

Glancing in the direction, Walter saw a light sud- 
denly go out in his dormitory, and a great bundle 
(apparently) disappear inside the window, which was 
then shut down. 

“ I’ll go and see,” he said. “ Good-night, you fel- 
lows.” 

All was quiet when he reached his room, but one of 
the candles, ineffectually extinguished, was still smok- 
ing, and when he looked to Eden’s bed he saw, by the 
gaslight that shone through the open door, that the 
boy was awake and crying bitterly. 

“What’s the matter, Eden?” he said kindly, sitting 
down upon his bed. 

“If you peach,” said Harpour and Jones together, 
“ you know what you’ll get.” 

“ Have you fellows been bullying poor little Eden ? ” 
asked Walter indignantly. 

“ I’ve not,” and “ I’ve not,” said Anthony and Frank- 
lin, who were better than the rest in every way ; “ and 
I haven’t touched the fellow, Evson,” said Cradock, who 
meant no harm, and at Walter’s earnest request had 
never again annoyed Eden since the first night. 

“ Poor little Eden — poor little fiddlestick,” said 
Jones ; “ it does the young cub good.” 

“ Send him home to his grandmamma, and let him 
have his bib and his night-cap,” growled Harpour; 
“ is he made of butter, and are you afraid of his melting, 
you Evson, that you make such a fuss with him ? You 
want your lickings yourself, and shall have them if 
you don’t look out.” 

“ I don’t care what you do to me , Harpour,” rejoined 
Walter, “and I don’t think you’ll do very much. But 
I do tell you that it’s a blackguard shame for a great 
big fellow like you to torment a little delicate chap 
like Eden ; and what’s more, you shan’t do it.” 

“ Shan’t ! my patience, I like that ! why, who is to 
prevent me?” 


112 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“I suppose he’ll turn sneak, and peach,” said Jones; 
“he’d do anything that’s mean, we all know.” 

Walter was always liable to that taunt now. It was 
a part of his punishment, and the one which lasted 
longest. From any other boy he might have winced 
under it; but really, coming from Jones, it was too 
contemptible to notice. 

“ You shut up, Jones,” he said angrily ; “ you shan’t 
touch Eden again, I can tell you, whatever Ilarpour 
does ; and he'd better look out what he does.” 

“ Look out yourself,” said Ilarpour, flinging a foot- 
ball boot at Walter’s head. 

“ You’ll find your boot on the grass outside to-mor- 
row morning,” said Walter, opening the window and 
dropping it down. He wasn’t a bit afraid, because he 
always went on the instinctive and never-mistaken 
assumption, that a bully must be a coward in his in- 
most nature. Cruelty to the weaker is incompatible 
with the generosity of all true courage. 

“By Jove, I’ll thrash you for that to-morrow,” 
shouted Ilarpour. 

“ To-morrow f" said Walter, with great contempt. 

“Oh, don’t make him angry, Walter,” whispered 
Eden ; “ you know what a strong fellow he is ” (Eden 
shuddered, as though he had reason to know) ; “ and 
you can’t fight him ; and you mustn’t get a thrashing 
for my sake. I’m not worth that. I’d rather bear it 
myself, Walter; — indeed I would.” 

“ Good-night, poor little Eden,” said Walter ; “ you’re 
safe to-night at any rate. Why, how cold you are! 
What have they been doing to you?” 

“I daren’t tell you to-night, Walter; I will to-mor- 
row,” he answered in a low tone, shivering all over. 

“Well, then, go to sleep now, my little man; and 
don’t you be afraid of Ilarpour or any one else. I 
won’t let them bully you if I can help it.” 

Eden squeezed Walter’s hand tight, and sobbed his 
thanks, while Walter gently smoothed the child’s pil- 
low and dried his tears. 

Poor Eden ! as I said before, he was too weak, too 
delicate, too tenderly nurtured, and far, far too young 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


113 


for the battle of life in a public school. For even at 
St. Winifred’s, as there are and must be at all great 
schools, there were some black sheep in the flock 
undiscovered, and therefore unseparated from the 
rest. 

8 



CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. 

MY BROTHER’S KEEPER. 

’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are 
our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners. — Othello , 
Act i. Sc. 3. 

As Walter lay awake for a few quiet moments before 
he sent his thoughts to rest, he glanced critically, like 
an Indian gymnosophist, over the occurrences of the 
day. He could not but rejoice that the last person for 
whom he felt real regard had forgiven him his rash 
act, and that his offence had thus finally been absolved 
on earth as in heaven. He rejoiced, too, that Mr. Per- 
cival’s kind permission to learn his lessons in his 
room would give him far greater advantages and 
opportunities than he had hitherto enjoyed. Yet 
Walter’s conscience was not quite at ease. The last 
scene had disturbed him. The sobs and shiverings of 
little Eden had fallen very reproachfully into his 
heart. Walter felt that he might have done far more 
for him than he had done. He had, indeed, even 
throughout his own absorbing troubles, extended to 
114 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


115 


the child a general protection, but not a special care. 
It never occurred to him to excuse himself with the 
thought that he was' “ not his brother’s keeper.” The 
truth was that he had found Eden uninteresting, be- 
cause he had not taken the pains to be interested in 
him, and while one voice within his heart reproved 
him of neglect and selfishness, another voice seemed 
to say to him, in a firm yet kindlier tone, “ Now that 
thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.” 

For indeed as yet Eden’s had been a very unhappy 
lot. Bullied, teased, and persecuted by the few among 
whom accident had first thrown him, and judged to 
belong to their set by others who on that account con- 
sidered him a boy of a bad sort, he was almost friend- 
less at St. Winifred’s. And the loneliness, the despair 
of this feeling, weighing upon his heart, robbed him of 
all courage to face the difficulties of work, so that in 
school as well as out of it, he was always in trouble. 
He was forever clumsily scrawling in his now illegible 
hand the crooked and blotted lines of punishment 
which his seeming ignorance or sluggishness brought 
upon him ; and although he was always to be seen at 
detention, he almost hailed this disgrace as affording 
him at least some miserable shadow of occupation, and 
a refuge, however undesirable, from the torments of 
those degraded few to whom his childish tears, his 
weak entreaties, his bursts of impotent passion, caused 
nothing but low amusement. Out of school his great 
object always was to hide himself; anywhere, so as to 
be beyond the reach of Jones, Ilarpour, and other bul- 
lies of the same calibre. For this purpose he would 
conceal himself for a whole afternoon at a time up in 
the fir-groves, listlessly gathering into heaps the red 
sheddings of their umbrage, and pulling to pieces their 
dry and fragrant cones ; or, when he feared that these 
resorts would be disturbed by some little gang of 
lounging smokers, he would choose some lonely place, 
under the shadow of the mountain cliffs, and sit for 
hours together, aimlessly rolling white lumps of quartz 
over the shingly banks. Under continued trials like 
these he became quite changed. The childish inno- 


116 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


cence and beauty of countenance, the childish frank- 
ness and gayety of heart, the childish quickness and 
intelligence of understanding, were exchanged for 
vacant looks, stupid indifference, and that half-cunning 
expression which is always induced by craven fear. 
Accustomed, too, to be waited upon and helped contin- 
ually in the home where his mother, a gay young 
widow, had petted and spoiled him, he became slovenly 
and untidy in dress and habits. lie rarely found time 
or heart to write home, and even when he did, he so 
well knew that his mother was incapable of sympathy 
or comprehension of his suffering, that the dirty and 
illspelt scrawl rarely alluded to the one dim conscious- 
ness that brooded over him night and day — that he 
couldn’t understand life, and only knew that he was a 
very friendless, unhappy, unpitied little boy. If he 
could have found even one to whom to unfold and 
communicate his griefs, even one to love him unreserv- 
edly, all the inner beauty and brightness of his char- 
acter would have blown and expanded in that genial 
warmth. He once thought that in Walter he had 
found such an one, but when he saw that his dulness 
bored Walter, and that his listless manners and untidy 
habits made him cross, he shrank back within himself. 
He was thankful to Walter as a protector, but did not 
look upon him as a friend in whom he could implicitly 
confide. The flower without sunshine will lose its 
color and its perfume. Six weeks after Arthur Eden, 
a merry bright-eyed child, alighted from his mother’s 
carriage at the old gate of St. Winifred’s School, no 
casual stranger would have recognized him again in 
the pale and moping little fellow who seemed to be 
afraid of every one whom he met. 

Oh, if we knew how rare, how sweet, how deep 
human sympathy can be, how easily, yet how seldom 
it is gained, how inexpressible the treasure is when 
once it has been gained, we should not trample on 
human hearts as lightly as most men do ! Any one 
who in that hard time had spoken a few kindly words 
to Eden — any one who would have taken him gently 
for a short while by the hand, and helped him over 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


117 


the stony places that hurt his unaccustomed feet 
—any one who would have suffered, or who would 
have invited him, to pour his sorrows into their ears 
and assist him to sustain them — might have won, even 
at that slight cost, the deepest and most passionate 
love of that trembling young heart. He might have 
saved him from hours of numbing pain, and won the 
rich reward of a gratitude well deserved and gener- 
ously repaid. There were many boys at St. Wini- 
fred’s gentle-hearted, right-minded, of kindly and 
manly impulses ; but all of them, except Walter, lost 
this golden opportunity of conferring pure happiness 
by disinterested good deeds. They did not buy up the 
occasion, which goes away and burns the priceless 
books she offers, if they are not purchased unquestion- 
ingly and at once. 

And Walter regretfully felt that he was very nearly 
too late ; so nearly, that perhaps in a week or two more 
Eden might have lost hopelessly, and forever, all trace 
of self-respect — might have been benumbed into men- 
tal imbecility by the torpedo-like influence of helpless 
grief. Walter felt as if he had been selfishly looking 
on while a fellow-creature was fast sinking in the 
water, and as if it were only at the last possible mo- 
ment that he had held out a saving hand. But, by 
God’s grace, he did hold out the saving hand at last, 
and it was grasped firmly, and a dear life was saved. 

Years after when Arthur Eden had grown into , 

but stop, I must not so far anticipate my story. Suf- 
fice it to say, that Walter’s kindness to Eden helped 
to bring about long afterwards one of the chief hap- 
pinesses of his own life. 

“ Come a stroll, Eden, before third school, and let’s 
have a talk, ” he said, as they came out from dinner 
in hall the next day. 

Eden looked up happily, and he was proud to be 
seen by Walter’s side in the throng of boys, as they 
passed out, and across the court, and under the shadow 
of the arch towards Walter’s favorite haunt, the sea- 
shore. Walter never felt weak or unhappj^ for long 
together, when the sweetness of the sea wind was on 


118 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


his forehead, and the song of the sea waves in his ear. 
A run upon the shore in all weathers, if only for five 
minutes, was his daily pleasure and resource. 

They sat down ; the sea flashed before them a mirror 
of molten gold, except where the summits of the great 
mountain of Appenfell threw their deep broad shadows, 
which seemed purple by contrast with the brightness 
over which they fell. Walter sat, full of healthy en- 
joyment as he breathed the pure atmosphere, and felt 
the delicious wind upon his glowing cheeks ; and Eden 
was happy to be with him, and to sit quietly by his 
side. 

“ Eden,” said Walter, after a few moments, “ I’m 
afraid you’ve not been happy lately.” 

The poor child shook his head, and answered, “No 
one cares for me here ; every one looks down on me, 
and is unkind; I’ve no friends.” 

“What, don’t you count me as a friend, then?” 

“Yes, Walter, you’re very kind; I’m sure I couldn't 
have lived here if it hadn’t been for you ; but you’re so 
much above me, and ” 

Walter would not press him to fill up the omission 
— he could understand the rest of the sentence for him- 
self. 

“ You mustn’t think I don’t feel how good you’ve been 
to me, Walter,” said the boy, drawing nearer to him, 
and taking his hand ; “ but ” 

“ Yes, yes, ” said Walter; “I understand it all. Well, 
never mind, I will be a friend to you now.” 

A tear trembled on Eden’s long eyelashes as he 
looked up quickly into W alter’s face. “ Will you, Wal- 
ter? thank you, I have no other friend here ; and 
please ” 

“ Well, what is it?” 

“ Will you call me Arthur, as they do at home ? ” 

Walter smiled. “ Well now,” he said, “ tell me 
what they were doing to you last night.” 

“You won’t tell them I told you, Walter,” he an- 
swered, looking around, with the old look of decrepit 
fear usurping his face, which had brightened for the 
moment. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 119 

“No, no,” said Walter impatiently; “why, what a 
little coward you are, Eden.” 

The boy shrank back into himself as if he had re- 
ceived a blow, and relaxed his grasp of Walter’s hand; 
but Walter, struck with the sensitive timidity which 
unkindness had caused, and sorry to have given him 
pain in all his troubles, said kindly — 

“ There, Arty, never mind ; I didn’t mean it ; don’t 
be afraid ; tell me what they did to you. I saw a light 
in our dormitory as I was coming back from Percival’s, 
and I saw something dragged through the window. 
What was it? ” 

“ That was me,” said Eden naively. 

“ You?” 

“ Yes, me. They let me down by a sheet which they 
tied around my waist.” 

“ What, from that high window ? I hope they tied 
you tight.” 

“ Only one knot ; I ever so nearly slipped out of it 
last night, and that’s what frightened me so, Walter.” 

“ How horribly dangerous ! ” said Walter indignantly. 

“ I know it is horribly dangerous,” said Eden, stand- 
ing up, and gesticulating violently, in one of those 
bursts of passion which flashed out of him now and 
then, and were the chief amusement of his persecutors ; 
“and I dream about it all night,” he said, bursting 
into tears, “ and I know, I know that some day I shall 
slip, or the knot will come undone, and I shall fall and 
be smashed to atoms. But what do they care for that ? 
and I sometimes wish I were dead myself, to have it 
all over.” 

“Hush, Arty, don’t talk like that,” said Walter, as 
he felt the little soiled hand trembling with passion 
and emotion in his own. “ But what on earth do they 
let you down for ? ” 

“To go to but you won’t tell?” he said, looking 

round again. “Oh, I forgot, you didn’t like my say- 
ing that. But it’s they who have made me a coward, 
Walter; indeed it is.” 

“ And no wonder,” thought Walter to himself. “ But 
you needn’t be afraid any more,” he said aloud ; “ I 


120 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 



promise you that no one shall do anything to you which 
they’d, be afraid to do to me.” 

“ Then I’m safe,” said Eden joyfully. “Well, they 
made me go to — to Dan’s.” 

“ Dan’s? what, the fisher- 
man’s just near the shore ?” 

“Yes; ugh!” 

“But don’t you know, 

Arty, that Dan’s a brute, 
and a regular smuggler, and 
that if you were caught go- 
ing there, you’d be sent 
away ? ” 

“Yes; you can’t 
think, Walter, how I 
hate , and how fright- 
ened I am to go there. 

T here’s Dan, and 
there’s that great lout 
of a wicked son of 
his, and they’re al- 
ways drunk, and the 
hut— ugh! it’s so 
nasty ; and last 
night Dan seiz- 
ed hold of me 
with his hor- 
rid red hand, 
and wanted 
me to drink some gin, and I shrieked.” The very 
remembrance seemed to make him shudder. 

“Well, then, after that I was nearly caught. I 
think, Walter, that even you would be a coward if you 
had such long long frights. You know that to get to 
Dan’s, after the gates are locked, the only way is to go 
over the railing, and through Dr. Lane’s garden, and 
I’m always frightened to death lest his great dog 
should be loose, and should catch hold of me. He did 
growl last night. And then as I was hurrying back — 
you know it was rather moonlight last night, and not 
very cold — and who should I see but the Doctor him- 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


121 


self walking up and down the garden. I crouched in 
a minute behind a thick holly tree, and I suppose 1 
made a rustle, though I held my breath, for the Doctor 
stopped and shook the tree, and said ‘ shoo,’ as though 
he thought a cat were hidden there. I was half dead 
with fright, though I did hope, after all, that he would 
catch me, and that I might be sent away from this 
horrid place. But when he turned round, I crept away, 
and made the signal, and they let down the sheet, and 
then, as they were hauling me up, I heard voices — I 
suppose they must have been yours and Kenrick’s ; 
but they thought it was some master, and doused the 
glim, and oh! so nearly let me fall; so, Walter, please 
don’t despise me, or be angry with me because you found 
me crying and shivering in bed. The cold made me 
shiver, and I couldn’t help crying ; indeed I couldn’t.” 

“Poor Arty, poor Arty,” said Walter soothingly. 
“ But have they ever done this before ? ” 

“ Yes, once, when you were at the choir-supper one 
night.” 

“ They never shall again, I swear,” said Walter, 
frowning, as he thought how detestably cruel they had 
been. “But what did they send you for?” 

“For no good,” said Eden. 

“ No ; I knew it would be for no good, if it was to 
Dan’s that they sent you.” 

“ Well, Walter, the first time it was for some drink ; 
and the second time for some more drink,” he said 
after a little hesitation. 

Walter looked serious. “ But don’t you know, 
Arty,” he said, “ that it’s very wrong to get such things 
for them ? If they want to have any dealings with 
that beast Dan, who’s not fit to speak to, let them go 
themselves. Arty, it’s very wrong ; you mustn’t do it.” 

“But how can I help it?” said the boy, looking 
frightened and ashamed. “Oh, must I always be 
blamed by every one,” he said, putting his hands to 
his eyes. “It isn’t my sin, Walter, it’s theirs. They 
made me.” 

“ Nobody can ever make any one else do what's vwony, 
Arty.” 


122 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ Oh, yes ; it’s all very easy for you to say that, Wal- 
ter, who can fight anybody, and who are so strong and 
good, and whom no one dares bully, and who are not 
laughed at, and made a butt of as I am.” 

“Look at Power,” said Walter, “or look at Dubbs. 
They came as young as you, Arty, and as weak as you, 
but no one ever made them do wrong. Power some- 
how looks as if he could not be bullied by any one ; 
they’re afraid of him, I don’t know why. But what 
had Dubbs to protect him? Yet not all the Ilarpours 
in the world would ever make him go to such a place 
as Dan’s.” 

Poor Eden felt it hard to be blamed for this ; he was 
not yet strong enough to learn that the path of duty, 
however hard and thorny, however hedged in with 
difficulties and antagonisms, is always the easiest and 
the pleasantest in the end. 

“But they’d half kill me, Walter,” he said plain- 
tively. 

“ They’ll have much more chance of doing that as 
it is,” said Walter. “They’d thrash you a little, no 
doubt, but respect you more for it. And surely it 
would be better to bear one thrashing, and not do 
what’s wrong, than to do it and to go two such jour- 
neys out of the window, and get the thrashings into 
the bargain? So even on that ground you ought to 
refuse. Eh, Arty ? ” 

“Yes, Walter,” he said, casting down his eyes. 

“Well; next time either Harpour, or any one else, 
tries to make you do what’s wrong, remember they 
can't make you, if you don’t choose ; and say flatly 
JVo ! and stick to it in spite of everything, like a brave 
little man, will you?” 

“I did say No at first, Walter; but they threatened 
to frighten me,” he said. “They knew I daren’t hold 
out.” 

Yes; there was the secret of it all. Walter saw 
that they had played on this child’s natural terrors 
with such refinement of cruelty, that fear had become 
the master principle in his mind; they had only to 
touch that spring and he obeyed them mechanically 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


¥23 


like a puppet, and because of his very fear he was 
driven to do things that might well cause genuine fear, 
till he lived in such a region of increasing fear and 
dread, that Walter’s only surprise was that lie had not 
been made an idiot already. Poor child ; it was no 
wonder that he was becoming more stupid, cunning, 
untidy, and uninteresting, every day. And all this 
was going on under the very eyes of many thoroughly 
noble boys, and conscientious masters, and yet they 
never saw or noticed it, and looked on Eden as an idle 
and unprincipled little sloven. Oh, our harsh human 
judgments ! The Priest and the Levite still pass the 
wounded man, and the good Samaritans are rare on 
this world’s highways. 

What was Walter to do ? He did not know the very 
name of psychology, but he did know the unhinging 
desolating power of an overmastering spirit of fear. 
He knew that fear hath torment, but he had no con- 
ception by what means that demon can be exorcised. 
Yet he thought, as he raised his eyes for one instant 
to Heaven in silent supplication, that there were few 
devils who would not go out by prayer, and he made 
a strong resolve that he would use every endeavor to 
make up for his past neglectfulness, and to save this 
poor unhappy child. 

“I’m not blaming you, Arthur,” he said, “but I like 
you, and don’t want to see you go wrong, and be a tool 
in bad boys’ hands. I hope you ask God to help you, 
Arthur ? ” 

Eden looked at him, but said nothing. He had been 
taught but little, and by example he had been taught 
nothing of the Awful Far-off Friend who is yet so near 
to every humble spirit, and who even now had sent 
His angel to save this lamb who knew not of His fold. 

“ Listen to me, Arthur — ah ! there I hear the third- 
school bell, and we must go in — but listen; Fllbeyour 
friend ; I want to be your friend. I’ll try and save 
you from all this persecution. Will you always trust 
me ? ” 

Eden’s look of gratitude more than repaid him, and 
Walter added, “And, Arty, you must not give up your 


124 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


prayers. Ask God to help you, and to keep you from 
going wrong, and to make you brave. Won't you, 
Arty ? ” 

The little boy’s heart was full even to breaking with 
its weight of happy tears ; it was too full to speak. 
He pressed Walter’s hand for one moment, and walked 
in by his side, without a word. 



CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. 

DAUBENY. 

La Genie c’est la Patience. — Buffon. 

I suppose that no days of life are so happy as those 
in which some great sorrow has been removed. Cer- 
tainly Walter’s days, as his heart grew lighter and 
lighter with the consciousness that Mr. Paton had 
forgiven him, that all those who once looked on him 
coldly had come round, that his difficulties were van- 
ishing before steady diligence, and that, young as he 
was, he was winning for himself a name and a position 
in the school, were very full of peace. O pleasant 
days of boyhood ! how mercifully they are granted to 
prepare us, to cheer us, to make us wise for the strug- 
gles of future life. To Walter at this time life itself 
was an exhilarating enjoyment. To get up in the 
morning, bright, cheerful, and refreshed, with thoughts 

Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, 

And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves ; 

to get over his lessons easily and successfully, and re- 
ceive Mr. Paton’s quiet word of praise; to shake with 

125 


126 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


laughing over the flood of nonsense with which Hen- 
derson always deluged every one who sat near him at 
breakfast time ; to help little Eden in his morning’s 
work, and to see with what intense affection and 
almost adoration the child looked up to him ; to stroll 
with Ken rick under the pine woods, or have a pleasant 
chat in Power’s study, or read a book in the luxurious 
retirement of Mr. Percival’s room, or, if it were a half 
holiday, to join in the skating, hare and hounds, foot- 
ball, or whatever game might be on hand ; — all these 
things were to Walter Evson one long unbroken pleas- 
ure. At this time he was the brightest, and pleas- 
antest, and happiest of all lighthearted and happy 
English boys. 

The permission to go, whenever he liked, to Mr. 
Percival’s room was his most valued privilege. There 
he could always secure such immunity from disturb- 
ance as enabled him to learn his lessons in half the 
time he would otherwise have been obliged to devote 
to them ; and there too he could always ask the mas- 
ter’s assistance when he came to any insuperable diffi- 
culty, and always enjoy the society of Henderson and 
the one or two other boys who were allowed by Mr. 
Percival’s kindness to use the same retreat. From the 
bottom of his form he rapidly rose to the top, and at 
last was actually placed first. A murmur of pleasure 
ran through the form on the first Sunday when his 
name was read out in this honorable position, and it 
gave Walter nearly as much satisfaction to hear Hen- 
derson’s name read out sixth on the same day ; for 
before Walter came, Henderson was too volatile ever 
to care where he stood in form, and usually spent his 
time in school in drawing caricatures of the masters, 
and writing parodies of the lesson or epigrams on 
other boys ; up till this time Daubeny had always been 
first in the form, and he deserved the place if any boy 
did. He was not a clever boy, but nothing could ex- 
ceed his well-intentioned industry. Like Sir Walter 
Raleigh he “toiled terribly.” It was an almost pa- 
thetic sight to see Dubbs set about learning his repe- 
titions ; it was a noble sight too. There was a heroism 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


127 


about it which was all the greater from its being un- 
noticed and unrecorded. Poor Dubbs had no privacy 
except such as the great schoolroom could afford, and 
there is not much privacy in a room, however large, 
which is the common habitation of fifty boys. Never- 
theless the undaunted Daubeny would choose out the 
quietest and loneliest corner of the room, and with 
elbows on knees, and hands over his ears to shut out 
the chaotic noises which surrounded him, would stay 
repeating the lines to himself with attention wholly 
concentrated and absorbed, until, after perhaps an 
hour’s work, he knew enough of them to enable him to 
finish mastering them the next morning. Next morn- 
ing he would be up with the earliest dawn, and would 
again set himself to the task with grand determina- 
tion, content if at the end of the week he gained the 
distinguished reward of being head in his form, and 
could allow himself the keen pleasure of writing home 
to tell his mother of his success. 

When Daubeny had first come to St. Winifred’s, he 
had been forced to go through very great persecution. 
As he sat down to do his work he would be pelted with 
orange peel, kicked, tilted off the form on which he 
sat, ridiculed, and sometimes chased out of the room. 
All this he had endured with admirable patience and 
good-humor ; in short, so patiently and good-humoredly 
that all boys who had in them a spark of sense 
or honor very soon abandoned this system of torment, 
and made up for it as far as they could by respect and 
kindness, which always, however, took more or less 
the form of banter. It is not to be expected that boys 
will ever be made to see that steady, strenuous indus- 
try, even when it fails, is a greater and a better thing 
than idle cleverness, but those few who were so far in 
advance of their years as to have some intuition of 
this fact, felt for the character of Daubeny a value 
which gave him an influence of a rare and important 
kind. For nothing could daunt this young martyr — 
not even failure itself. If he were too much bullied 
and annoyed to get up his lesson overnight, he would 
be up by five in the morning working at it with unre- 


128 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


mitting assiduity. Very often be overdid it, and knew 
his lesson all the worse in proportion as he had spent 
upon it too great an amount of time. Without being 
positively stupid, his intellect was somewhat dull, and 
as his manner was shy and awkward he had not been 
quite understood at first, and no master had taken him 
specially in hand to lighten his burdens. His bitterest 
trial, therefore, was to fail completely every now and 
then, and be reproached for it by some master who 
little knew the hours of weary work which he had de- 
voted to the unsuccessful attempt. This was partic- 
ularly the case during his first half-year, during which 
he had been in Mr. Robertson’s form. It happened 
that, from the very weariness of brain induced by his 
working too hard, he had failed in several successive 
lessons, and Mr. Robertson, who was a man of quick 
temper and stinging speech, had made some very cut- 
ting remarks upon him, and sent him moreover to 
detention — a punishment which caused to his sensitive 
mind a pain hardly less acute than the master’s pun- 
gent and undeserved sarcasm. This mishap, joined to 
his low weekly placing, very nearly filled him with 
despair, and this day might have turned the scale, 
and fixed him in the position of a heavy and disheart- 
ened boy, but for Power, who had come to St. Wini- 
fred’s at the same time with Daubeny, and who, al- 
though in his unusually rapid progress he had long 
left Daubeny behind, was then in the same form and 
the same dormitory with him, and knew how he 
worked. Power used always to say to his friends that 
Dubbs was the worthiest, the bravest, the most upright 
and conscientious boy in all St. Winifred’s School. 
Daubeny, on the other hand, had for Power the kind 
of adoration of the savage for the sun ; he was the 
boy’s beau-ideal of a perfect scholar and a perfect 
being. It was a curious sight to see the two boys 
together — Power with his fine and thoughtful face 
beaming with intelligence, Dubbs with large, heavy 
features and awkward gait ; Power sitting down with 
his book and perfectly mastering the lesson in a 
quarter of an hour, and then turning round to say 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 129 

with a bright, arch look, “Well, Dubbs, I’ve learnt the 
lesson ; how far are you?” 

“ Learnt the lesson ? O lucky fellow ! — I only know 
one stanza and that not perfectly; let me see — “Nam 
quid Typhoeus et validus Mimas nam quid” — no; I 
don’t know even that, I see.” 

“ Here, let me hear you.” 

Whereupon Dubbs would begin again, and flounder 
hopelessly at the end of the third line, and then Power 
would continue it all through with him, fix the sense 
of it in his memory, read it oyer, suggest little mne- 
monic dodges and associations of particular words and 
lines, and not leave him until he knew it by heart, and 
was ready with gratitude enough to pluck out his 
right eye and give it to Power, if needed, there and then. 

The early failures we have been speaking of took place 
when Power had been staying out of school with a 
severe cold, and being in the sick-room had not seen 
Daubeny at all. lie had come out again on the morn- 
ing when, after Daubeny’s failure, Mr. Robertson had 
called him incorrigibly slothful and incapable, and after 
muttering some more invectives, had said something 
about his being hopeless. As he listened to the master’s 
remarks, although he knew that they only arose from 
misconception, Power’s cheeks flushed up with painful 
surprise, and his eyes sparkled with indignation for 
his friend. He wanted Daubeny to tell Mr. Robertson 
how many hours he had spent in being “ incorrigibly 
slothful” over that particular lesson, but this at the 
time he could not get him to do. “ Besides,” said 
Daubeny, “ if he knows me to be quite hopeless” — and 
here the poor boy grew scarlet as he recalled the un- 
deserved insult — “it’s no disgrace to me to fail.” 

When detention was over, Power sought out his 
friend, and found him sitting on the top of a little hill 
by the side of the river alone, and with a most forlorn 
and disconsolate air. Power saw that he had been cry- 
ing bitterly, but had too much good taste to take any 
notice of the fact. 

“ Well, Power, you see what credit I get, and yet you 
know how I try. I’m a 1 tad, idle boy,’ it seems, and 

9 


130 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 



‘incorrigibly slothful,’ and ‘hardly fit for the school,’ 
and ‘ I must be put down 
to a lower form if I don’t 
make more effort, — 
oh ! I forgot, though, 
you heard it all 
yourself. So you 
know my charac- 
ter,” he said, with 
a melancholy 
smile. 

“Never mind, 
old fellow. You’ve 
done your best, 
and none of us can 
do more. You 
know the soldier’s 
epitaph — ‘Here 
lies one who tried 
to do his duty ’ ; — 
a prince could not 
have better, and 
you deserve that 
if any one ever 
did.” 

“ I wish I were you, Power,” said Daubeny ; “ you 
are so clever, you can learn the lessons in no time; 
every one likes you, and you get no end of credit, while 
I’m a mere butt, and when I’ve worked hard it’s a case 
of ‘ sitting down like an ass,’ as the Greek lesson-book 
says.” 

“ Pooh, Dubbs,” said Power, kindly putting his arm 
on his shoulder; “you’re just as happy as I am. A 
fellow with a clear conscience can't be in low spirits 
very long. Don’t you remember the pretty verse I 
read to you the other day, and which made me think 
of you while I read it — 


“ Days that, in spite 
Of darkness, by the light 
Of a clear mind are days all night ? ’ 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


131 


“ Don’t think I envy you, Power — you won’t think 
that, will you ? ” said Dubbs, with the tears glistening 
in his eyes. 

“ No, no, my dear old boy. Such a nature as yours 
can’t envy, I know; I’m sure you’re as happy when I 
succeed as when you succeed yourself. I think I’ve got 
the secret of it, Dubbs. You work too much ; you 
must take more exercise — play games more— give less 
time to the work. I’m sure you’ll do better then, for 
half is better than the whole sometimes. And Dubbs, 
I may say to you what I wouldn’t say to any other boy 
in the whole school — but I’ve found it so true, and I’m 
sure you will too, and that is Bene orasse est bene 
studuisse .” 

Dubbs pressed his hand in silence. The hard 
thoughts which had been gathering were dissipated in 
a moment, and as he walked back to the school and to 
new heroic efforts, by Power’s side, he felt that he had 
learnt a secret full of strength, lie did better and bet- 
ter. He broke the neck of his difficulties one by one, 
and had soon surpassed boys who were far more bril- 
liant, but less industrious, than himself. Thus it was 
that he fought his way up to the position of one of the 
steadiest and most influential boys among those of his 
own standing, because all knew him to be sterling in 
his virtues, unswerving in his rectitude, most humble, 
and most sincere. During all his school career he was 
never once overtaken in a serious fault. It may be 
that he had fewer temptations than boys more gifted 
and more mercurial; he was never exposed to the sin- 
gularly powerful trials which befell others who were 
superior to him in good looks, and popular manners, 
and quick passions ; but yet his blamelessness had 
something in it very beautiful, and his noble upward 
struggles were remembered with fond pleasure in after 
days. 

Walter, like all other sensible boys, felt for Daubeny 
a very sincere admiration and regard. Daubeny’s 
fearless rectitude, on the night when his own indulged 
temper led him into such suffering, had left a deep 
impression on his mind, and, since then, Dubbs 


132 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


had always been among the number of his more inti- 
mate friends. Hence, when Walter wrested from him 
the head place, he was half sorry that he should cause 
the boy to lose his well-merited success, and almost 
wished that he had come out second and left Daubeny 
first. He knew that there was not in his rival’s nature 
a particle of envy, but still he feared that he might 
suffer some disappointment. But in this he was mis- 
taken. Daubeny was a firm believer in the principle 
of La carrih'e ouverte aux talents ; he was, under the 
circumstances, quite as happy to be second as to be 
first ; and among the many who congratulated Walter, 
none did so with a heartier sincerity than this generous 
and single-minded boy. 

People still retain the notion that boyish emulation 
is the almost certain cause of hatreds and jealousies. 
Usually, the fact is the very reverse. An ungenerous 
rivalry is most unusual, and those schoolfellows who 
dispute with a boy the prizes of a form are commonly 
his most intimate associates and his best friends. 
Certainly Daubeny liked Walter none the less for his 
having wrested away from him with so much ease a 
distinction which had caused himself such strenuous 
efforts to win. 

The pleasant excitement of contending for a weekly 
position made Daubeny work harder than ever. In- 
deed, the whole form seemed to have received a new 
stimulus lately. Henderson was astonishing every- 
body by a fit of diligence, and even Howard Tracy 
seemed less totally indifferent to his place than usual. 
So willingly did the boys work, that Mr. Paton had 
not half the number of punishments to set, and perhaps 
his late misfortune had infused a little more tenderness 
and consideration into a character always somewhat 
stern and unbending. But, instead of rising, Daubeny 
only lost places by his increased work ; he was making 
himself ill with work. At the end of the next week, 
instead of being first or second, he was only fifth ; and 
when Mr. Percival, who always had been his friend, 
rallied him on his descent, he sighed deeply, and com- 
plained that he had been suffering lately from head- 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 133 

aches, and supposed that they had prevented him from 
doing so well as usual. 

This remark rather alarmed the master, and on the 
Sunday afternoon he asked the boy to come a walk 
with him, for the express purpose of endeavoring to 
persuade him to relax efforts which were obviously 
being made to the injury of his health. 

When they had once fairly reached the meadows by 
the riverside, Mr. Percival said to him — 

“ You are overdoing it, Daubeny. I can see myself 
that your mind is in a tense, excited, nervous con- 
dition from work; you must lie fallow, my dear boy.” 

“ Oh, I’m very strong sir,” said Daubeny ; “ I’ve a 
cast-iron constitution, as that amusing plague of mine, 
Henderson, always tells me.” 

“ Never mind, you must really work less. I won’t 
have that getting up at five in the morning. If you 
don’t take care, I shall forbid you to be higher than 
twentieth in your form under heavy penalties, or I 
shall get Dr. Keith to send you home altogether, and 
not let you go in to the examination.” 

“ Oh no, sir, you really mustn’t do that. I assure 
you that I enjoy work. An illness I had when I was 
a child hindered and threw me back very much, and 
you can’t think how eager I am to make up for that 
lost time.” 

“The time was not lost, my dear Daubeny, if God 
demanded it in illness for Ilis own good purposes. Be 
persuaded, my boy; abandon, for the present, all 
struggle to take a high place until you feel quite well 
again, and then you shall work as hard as you like. 
Remember knowledge itself is valueless in comparison 
with health.” 

Daubeny felt the master’s kind intention; but he 
could not restrain his unconquerable eagerness to get 
on. He would have succumbed far sooner, if Walter 
and Power had not constantly dragged him out with 
them, almost by force, and made him take exercise 
against his will. But, though he was naturally strong 
and healthy, he began to look very pale, and his best 
friends. urged him to go home and take a holiday. 

Would that he had taken that good and kind advice ! 


134 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. 

APPEXFELL. 

To breathe the difficult air 
Of the iced mountain top. — Manfred. 

Jetzo auf den Scliroffen Zinken 
Hangt sie, auf dem hochsten Grat, 

Wo die Felsen jali versinken, 

Und verschwunden ist der Pfad. — Schiller. 

It was some weeks before the examination, and the 
close of the half-year, when one clay Walter, full of 
glee, burst out of the schoolroom at twelve when the 
lesson was over, to tell Kenrick an announcement just 
made to the forms, that the next day was to be a 
whole-holiday. 

“ Hurrah ! ” said Kenrick, “ what’s it for ? ” 

“ Oh, Somers has got no end of a scholarship at 
Cambridge — an awfully swell thing — and Dr. Lane 
gave a holiday directly he got the telegram announc- 
ing the news.” 

“Well done, old Somers!” said Kenrick. “What 
shall we do?” 

“ Oh ! I’ve had a scheme for a long time in my head, 
Ken ; I want you to come with me to the top of Appen- 
. fell.” 

“ Whew-w-w ! but it’s a tremendous long walk, and 
no one goes up in winter.” 

“Never mind, all the more fun and glory, and we 
shall have the whole day before us. I’ve been longing 
to beat that proud old Appenfell for a long time. I’m 
certain we can do it.” 

“ But do you mean that we two should go alone ?” 

“ Oh no ; we’ll ask Flip, to amuse us on the way.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


135 


“ And may I ask Power ?” 

“ If you like,” said Kenrick, who was, I am sorry to 
say, not a little jealous of the friendship which had 
sprung up between Power and Walter. 

“ And would you mind Daubeny joining us?” 

“ Not at all ; and he’s clearly overworking himself. 
It’ll do him good. Let me see — you, Power, Flip, 
Dubbs, and me; that’ll be enough, won’t it?” 

“ Well, I should like to ask Eden.” 

“ Eden ! ” said Kenrick, with the least little touch of 
contempt in his tone of voice. 

“ Poor little fellow,” said Walter, smiling sadly ; “ so 
you too despise him. No wonder he doesn’t get on.” 

“Oh! let him come by all means, if you like,” said 
Kenrick. 

“Thanks, Ken — but now I come to think of it, it’s 
too far for him. Never mind; let’s go before dinner, 
and order some sandwiches for to-morrow, and forage 
generally, at Cole’s.” 

Power and Daubeny gladly consented to join the 
excursion. At tea, Walter asked Henderson if he’d 
come with them, and he, being just then in a phase of 
nonsense which made him speak of everything in a 
manner intended to be Homeric, answered with 
oracular gravity — 

“ Him addressed in reply the laughter-loving son of Hender : 

Thou asketh me, O Evides, like to the immortals, 

Whether thee I will accompany, and the much-enduring 
Dubbs, 

And the counsellor Power, and the revered ox-eyed Kenrick, 

To the tops of thousand-crested many-fountained Appenfell. ” 

“ Grotesque idiot,” said Kenrick, laughing ; “ cease 
this weak washy everlasting flood of twaddle, and tell 
us whether you’ll come or no.” 

“ Him sternly eyeing, addressed in reply the mighty Hender- 
ides, 

Heavy with tea, with the eyes of a dog, and the heart of a 
reindeer : 

What word has escaped thee, the barrier of thy teeth ? 

Contrary to right, not according to right, hast thou spoken.” 


136 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ For goodness’ sake shut up before you’ve driven us 
stark raving mad,” said Walter, putting his hand over 
Henderson’s lips. “Now, yes or no; will you come?” 

“ Thee will I accompany ” said Henderson, 

struggling to get clear of Walter, “ to many-fountained 
Appenfell ” 

“ Hurrah ! that’ll do. We have got an answer out of 
you at last ; and now go on spouting the whole Iliad 
if you like.” 

Full of spirits they started after breakfast the next 
morning, and as they climbed higher and higher up the 
steep mountain-side, the keen air exhilarated them, 
and showed as through a crystal glass, the exceeding 
glory of the hills flung on every side around them, and 
the broad living sparkle of the sea caught here and 
there in glimpses between the nearer peaks. Walter, 
Henderson, and Kenrick were in front, while at some 
distance behind them, Power helped on Daubeny, who 
soon showed signs of fatigue. 

“Look at that happy fellow Evson,” said Daubeny, 
sighing; “ how he is bounding along in front. How 
active he is ! He’s a regular mountain-boy.” 

“ Why, yes,” said Power ; “ you must remember that 
he was born and bred among the hills. But you seem 
out of spirits,” said Power kindly; “what’s the 
matter ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing. A little tired, that’s all.” 

“You’re surely not fretting about having lost the 
head place.” 

“Oh, no. Palmam qui meruit fer at. As Robertson 
said the other day in his odd, fantastic way of express- 
ing his thoughts — ‘In the amber of duty you must not 
always expect to find the curious grub success.’ ” 

“ Depend upon it, you’d be higher if you worked less, 
my dear fellow. Let me persuade you — don’t work for 
examination any more.” 

“You all mistake me. It’s not for the place that I 
work, but because I want to know, to learn ; not to 
grow up quite stupid and empty-headed as I other- 
wise should do.’* 

“ What a love for work you have, Daubeny.” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


137 


“ Yes, I have now ; but do you know it really wasn’t 
natural to me. As a child, I used to be idle and get on 
very badly, and it used to vex my poor father, who was 
then living, very much. Well, one day, not long before 
he died, I had been very obstinate and would learn 
nothing. He didn’t say much, but in the afternoon, 
when we were taking a walk, we passed an old bain, 
and on the thatched roof was a lot of grass and stone- 
crop. He plucked a handful, and showed me how rank 
and useless it was, and then, resting his hand upon my 
head, he told me that it was the type of an idle, useless 
man — ‘grass upon the housetops, withered before it 
groweth up, wherewith the mower filleth not his hand, 
nor he that gathereth the sheaves his bosom.’ Some- 
how the circumstance took hold of my imagination ; it 
was the last scene with my poor father which I vividly 
remember. I have never been idle since then.” 

Power mused a little, and then said — “But, dear 
Dubbs, you’ll make your brain heavy by the time 
examination begins ; you won’t be able to do yourself 
justice.” 

He did not answer ; but a weary look, which Power 
had often observed with anxiety, came over his face. 

“ I’m afraid I must turn back, Power,” he said ; “ I’m 
quite tired — done up.” 

“ I’ve been thinking so, too. Let me turn back with 
you.” 

“ No, no ! I won’t spoil your day’s excursion. Let me 
go alone.” 

“ Hi ! you fellows,” said Power, shouting to the three 
in front. They were too far in advance to hear him, 
so he told Daubeny to sit down while he overtook them, 
and asked if any of them would prefer to turn back. 

“ Dubbs is too tired to go any farther,” he said, when 
he reached them, breathless with his run. “I don’t 
think lie’s very well, and sol’ll just go back with him.” 

“Oh no, you really mustn’t; ./will,” said each of the 
other three almost in a breath. Every one of the four 
was most anxious to get on, and reach the top of Ap- 
penfell, which was consideyed a very, great feat among 
the boys even in summer, as the climb was dangerous 


138 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 



and severe ; and yet each generously wished to undergo 
the self-denial of turning back. As their wills were 
about equally strong, it would have ended in all of them 
accompanying Daubeny, had he not, when they reached 
him, positively refused to turn on such conditions, and 
suggested that they should decide it by drawing lots. 

Power wrote the names on slips of paper, and Walter 
drew one at hazard. The lot fell on Henderson, so he 
at once took Daubeny’s arm, relieving his disappoint- 
ment by turning round, shaking his fist at the top of 
Appenfell, and saying, “You be 
hanged! I wish you were rolled 
out quite flat and planted with pota- 
toes ! ” 

“ There,” said Power, laughing, “ I 
should think that was about the 
grossest indignity the Genius of 
Appenfell ever had offered to him; 
so now you’ve had your revenge, 
take care of Dubbs. Good-bye.” 

“ How very kind it is of 
you to come with me, 

Flip,” said Daubeny ; “ I 
don’t think I could man- 
age to get home without 
your help ; but Pm quite 
vexed to drag you back. 

Good-bye, you 
fellows.” Wal- 
ter, Power and, 

Kenrick found 
that to reach the 
cairn on the top 
of Appenfell#^ 
taxed all their; J 
strength. The 
mountain seem- 
ed to heave be- 
fore them a suc- 
cession of huge 
shoulders, and 




*[/. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


139 


each one that they surmounted showed them only 
fresh steeps to climb. At last they reached the piled 
confusion of rocks, painted with every gorgeous and 
brilliant color by emerald moss and golden lichen, 
which marked the approach to the summit; and 
Walter, who was a long way the first to get to the top, 
shouted to encourage the other two, and, after resting 
a few minutes, clambered down to assist their progress. 
Being accustomed to the hills, he was far less tired 
than they were, and could give them very efficient 
help. 

At the top they rested for some time, eating their 
scanty lunch, chatting, and enjoying the matchless 
splendor of the prospect which stretched in a cloudless 
expanse before them on every side. 

“ Power,” said Walter, in a pause of their talk, “I’ve 
long been meaning to ask you a favor.” 

“It’s granted then,” said Power, “if you ask it, 
Walter.” 

“I’m not so sure; it’s a very serious favor, and it 
isn’t for myself ; moreover, it’s very cool.” 

“ The greater it is, the more I shall know that you 
trust iny friendship, Walter; and, if it’s cool, it suits 
the time and place.” 

“Yet, I bet you that you’ll hesitate when I propose 
it.” 

“Well, out with it; you make me curious.” 

“It is that you’d give little Eden the run of your 
study.” 

“ Little Eden the run of my study ! Oh yes, if you 
wish it,” said Power, not liking to object after what he 
had said, but flushing up a little, involuntarily. It 
was indeed a great favor to ask. Power’s study was a 
perfect sanctum ; he had furnished it with such rare 
good taste, that, when you entered, your eye was 
attracted by some good engraving or neat contrivance 
wherever you looked. It was Power’s peculiar pride 
and pleasure to beautify his little room, and to sit 
there with any one whom he liked ; but to give up his 
privacy, and let a little scapegrace like Eden have the 
free run of it, was a proposition which took him by 


140 


ST. WINIFRED’S, 


surprise. Yet it was a good deal for Power’s own 
sake that Walter had ventured to ask it. Power’s 
great fault was his over-refinement; the fastidiousness 
which marred his proper influence made him unpopular 
with many boys, and shut him up in a reserved and 
introspective habit of mind. By a kind of instinct, 
Walter felt that it would be good to disturb this 
epicurean indifference to the general interests of the 
school, and the kind of intellectualism which weakened 
the character of this attractive and affectionate, yet 
shy and self-involved boy. 

“Ah, I see,” said Walter archly ; “you’re as bad as 
Kenrick; you Priests and Levites won’t touch my 
poor little wounded traveller.” 

“But I don’t see what I could do for him,” said 
Power; “I shouldn’t know what to talk to him 
about.” 

“ Oh yes, you would ; you don’t know how his grati- 
tude would pay you for the least interest shown in 
him. He’s been so shamefully bullied, poor little 
chap, I hardly like to tell you even the things that 
that big brute Harpour has made him do. He came 
here bright and neat, and merry and innocent ; and 

now ” He would not finish the sentence, and his 

voice faltered ; but checking himself, he added, more 
calmly — “ This, remember, has been done to the poor 
little fellow here , at St. Winifred’s; and when I 
remember what I might have been myself by this time, 
but for — but for one or two friends, my heart quite 
bleeds for him. Anyhow, I think one ought to do 
what one can for him. I wish I’d a study, I know, and 
he should find some peace and protection. I’ve got so 
much good from being able to learn my own lessons 
in Percival’s room, that I’d give anything to be able 
to do as much for some one else.” 

“ lie shall come, Walter,” said Power, “ with all my 
heart. I’ll ask him directly we get back to St. Wini- 
fred’s.” 

“ Will you? Thank you ! That is good of you ; I’m 
sure you won’t be sorry in the long run.” 

Power and Kenrick were both thinking that this 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


141 


new friend of theirs, though he had been so short a 
time at St. Winifred’s, was teaching them some valu- 
able lessons. Neither of them had previously recog- 
nized the truth which Walter seemed to feel so 
strongly, that they were to some extent directly re- 
sponsible for the opportunities which they lost of help- 
ing and strengthening the boys around them. Neither 
of them had ever done anything, worth speaking 
of, to lighten the heavy burden laid on some of the 
little boys at St. Winifred’s; and now they heard 
Walter talking with something like remorse about a 



who had no special claim what- 
ever on his kindness, but whom he 
felt that he might more efficiently have rescued from 
evil associates, evil words, evil ways, and all the 
heart-misery they cannot fail to bring. The sense of a 
new mission, a neglected duty, dawned upon them both. 

They sat for a time silent, and then Ivenrick, shaking 
off his reverie, pointed down the hill, and said — 

“Do look at those magnificent clouds; how they 
come surging up the hill in huge curving masses.” 

“Yes,” said Power; “doesn’t it look like a grand 
charge of giant cavalry ? .Why, Walter, my dear 
fellow, how frightened you look.” 


142 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


“Well, no,” said Walter, “not frightened. But I 
say, you two, supposing those clouds which have 
gathered so suddenly don’t clear away, do you think 
that you could find your way down the hill? ” 

“I don’t know; I almost think so,” said Kenrick 
dubiously. 

“Ah, Ken, I suspect you haven’t had as much expe- 
rience of mountain-mists as I have. We may find our 
way somehow; but ” 

“ You mean,” said Power, with strange calmness, 
“ that there are lots of precipices about, and that 
shepherds have several times been lost on these hills ?” 

“Let’s hope that the mist will clear away, then,” 
said Walter; “anyhow, let’s get on the grass, and off 
these awkward boulders, before we are surrounded.” 

“By all means,” said Kenrick; “charges of cloud- 
cavalry are all very well in their way ; but ” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


143 


CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. 

IN THE CLOUDS. 

’A evaoi vscpelai 

apdti/uev <j>avepal Spooepav <{>vmv tvayrjrov 

irarpog an’ 'tttceavov j3apvaxeog 

v\ prjTi&v opeuv tcopvfpag £ni. — Aristoph. Nub. 275. 

The three boys scrambled with all their speed, 
Walter helping the other two, down the vast primeval 
heap of many-tinted rock-fragments which form the 
summit of Appenfell, and found themselves again on 
the short slippery grass, hardened with recent frosts, 
that barely covered the wave-like sweep of the hill- 
side. Meanwhile the dense masses of white cloud 
gathered below them, resting here and there in the 
hollows of the mountains like gigantic walls and bas- 
tions, and leaning against the abrupter face of the 
precipice in one unbroken barrier of opaque, immacu- 
late, impenetrable pearl. As you looked upon it the 
chief impression it gave you was one of immense thick- 
ness and crushing weight. It seemed so compressed 
and impenetrable that one could not fancy how even 
a thunderbolt could shatter it, or the wildest blast of 
any hurricane dissipate its enormous depth. But as 
yet it had not enveloped the peaks themselves. On 
them the sun yet shone, and where the boys stood they 
were still bathed in the keen yet blue and sunny air, 
islanded far up above the noiseless billows of surging 
cloud. 

This was not for long. Gradually, almost imper- 
ceptibly, the clouds stole upon them — reached out 
white arms and enfolded them in sudden whirls of 
thin and smoke-like mist ; eddied over their heads 


144 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and round their feet; swathed them at last as in a 
funeral pall, blotting from their sight every object 
save wreathes of dank vapor, rendering wholly uncer- 
tain the direction in which they were moving, and 
giving a sense of doubt and danger to every step they 
took. Kenrick had only told the master who had 
given them leave of absence from dinner that they 
meant to go a long walk. He had not mentioned 
Appenfell, not from any want of straightforwardness, 
but because they thought that it might sound like a 
vainglorious attempt, and they did not want to talk 
about it until they had really accomplished it. But 
in truth if they had mentioned this as their destina- 
tion, no wise master would have given them permis- 
sion to go, unless they promised to be accompanied by 
a guide; for the ascent of Appenfell, dangerous even 
in summer to all but those who well knew the features 
of the mountain, became in winter a perilous and fool- 
hardy attempt. The boys themselves, when they 
started on their excursion, had no conception of the 
amount or extent of the risk they ran. Seeing that 
the morning gave promise of a bright and clear day, 
they had never thought of taking into account the 
possibility of mists and storms. 

The position in which they now found themselves 
was enough to make a stout heart quail. By this time 
they were hopelessly enveloped in palpable clouds, 
and could not see the largest objects a yard before 
them. In fact, even to see each other they had to 
keep closely side by side ; for once, when Kenrick had 
separated from them for a little distance, it was only 
by the sound of his shouts that they found him again. 
After this they crept on in perfect silence, each trying 
to conceal from the others the terror which lay like 
frost on his own spirits — unsuccessfully, for the trem- 
ulous sound which the quick palpitation of their hearts 
gave to their breathing showed plainly enough that 
all three of them recognized the frightfulness of their 
danger. 

Appenfell was one of those mountains, not unfre- 
quent, which are on one side abrupt and bounded by 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


145 


a wall of almost fathomless precipice, and on the other 
descend to the plain in a cataract of billowy undula- 
tions. It had one feature which, although peculiar, 
is by no means unprecedented. At one point, where 
the huge rock- wall towers up from the ghastly depth 
of a broad ravine, there is a lateral ridge — not unlike 
the Mickledore of Scawfell Pikes — running right across 
the valley, and connecting Appenfell with Bardlyn, 
another hill of much lower elevation, towards which 
this ridge runs down with a long but gradual slope. 
This edge was significantly called the Razor, and it 
was so narrow that it would barely admit the passage 
of a single person along its summit. It was occasion- 
ally passed by a few shepherds, accustomed from 
earliest childhood to the hills, but no ordinary traveller 
ever dreamed of braving its real dangers, for, even had 
the path been broader, the horrible depth of fall on 
either side was quite sufficient to render dizzy the 
steadiest head, and if a false step were taken, the 
result, to an absolute certainty, was frightful death. 
For so nearly perpendicular were the sides of this 
curious partition, that the narrow valley below, offer- 
ing no temptation to any one to visit it, had not, 
within the memory of man, been trodden by any 
human foot. To add to the horror inspired by the 
Razor, a shepherd had recently fallen from it in a 
summer storm ; his body had been abandoned as un- 
recoverable, and the ravens and wild cats had fed upon 
him. Something — a dim gleam of uncertain white 
among the rank grass — was yet visible from one point 
of the ledge, and the bravest mountaineer shuddered 
when, looking down the gloomy chasm, he recognized 
in that glimpse the mortal remains of a fellowuuan. 

“ Are you sure that we are on the right path, Wal- 
ter?” asked Power, trying to speak as cheerfully and 
indifferently as he could. 

“Certain,” said Walter, pulling out of his pocket 
the little brass pocket-compass which had been his 
invariable companion in his rambles at home, and 
which he had fortunately brought' with him as likely 
to be useful in the lonely tracts which surrounded 
10 


146 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


St. Winifred’s. “The bay lies due west from here, 
and I’m sure of the general direction.” 

“ But I think we’re keeping too much to the right, 
Walter,” said Kenrick. 

“Look here,” said Walter, stopping; “the truth is 
— and we may just as well be ready for it — that we’re 
between two dangers. On the right is Bardlyn rift ; 
on the left we have the sides of Appenfell, and no 
precipices, but ” 

“ I know what you’re thinking of — the old mines.” 

“Yes; that’s why I’ve been keeping to the right. I 
think even in this mist we could hardly go over the 
rift, for 1 fancy that we could at least discover when 
we were getting close to it ; but there are three or 
four old mines; we don’t know in the least where they 
lie exactly, and one might stumble over one of the 
shafts in a minute.” 

“What in the world shall we do?” said Power, 
stopping, as he realized the full intensity of peril. 
“ As it is we can’t see where we’re going, and very 
soon we shall have darkness as well as mist. Besides 
it’s so frightfully cold, now that we are obliged to go 
slowly.” 

“ Let’s stop and consider what we’d best do,” said 
Kenrick. “ Walter, what do you say?” 

“ We can do one of two things. Either go on, and 
trust to God’s mercy to keep us safe, or sit still here 
and hope that the mist may clear away.” 

“ That last’ll never do,” answered Kenrick ; “ I’ve 
seen the mist rest on Appenfell for days and days.” 

“ Besides, ” said Power, “ unless we move on, at all 
hazards, night will be on us. A December night on 
Appenfell, without food or extra coverings, and the 
chance of being kept indefinitely longer ” the sen- 

tence ended in a shudder. 

“ Yes ; I don’t know what we should look like in the 
morning,” said Kenrick. “ Let’s move on at all events ; 
better that, than the chance of being frozen and starved 
to death. ” 

They moved on again a little way through the clouds 
with uncertain and hesitating steps, when suddenly 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


147 


Walter cried out in an agitated voice, “ Stop ! God 
only knows where we are. I feel by a kind of in- 
stinct that we’re somewhere near the rift. I don’t 
know what else should make me tremble all over as I 
am doing ; I seem to hear the rift somehow. For God’s 
sake stop ! Just let’s sit down a minute till I try 
something.” 

“ But it’s now nearly four o’clock,” said Kenrick, in 
a querulous tone, as he halted and pulled out his watch, 
holding it close to his face to make out the time. “An 
hour more and all daylight will be gone, and with it all 
chance of being saved. Surely we’d better press on. 
That’s uncertain danger, but to stop is certain ” 

“ Certain death,” whispered Power. 

“Just listen then, one second,” said Walter, and, 
disembedding a huge piece of stone, he rolled it with 
all his force to their right listening with senses acute- 
ly sharpened by danger and excitement. The stone, 
bounded once, then they heard in their ears a rush, a 
shuffling of loose stones and sliding earth, the whir- 
ring sound of a heavy falling body, and then for several 
seconds a succession of distant crashes, startling with 
fright the rebounding mountain echoes, as the bit of 
rock whirled over the rift and was shattered into frag- 
ments by being dashed against the sides of the precipice. 

“Good God!” cried Walter, clutching both the boys 
and dragging them hurriedly backwards, “ we are stand- 
ing at this moment on the very verge of the chasm. 
It won’t do to go on ; every step may be death.” 

A pause of almost unspeakable horror followed his 
words ; after the fall of the rock had revealed to them 
how frightful was the peril which they had escaped, 
all three of them for a moment felt paralyzed in every 
limb, and after looking close into each other’s faces 
blanched white by a deadly fear, Kenrick and Power 
sat down in an agony of despair. 

“ Don’t give way, you fellows,” said Walter, to whom 
they both seemed to look for help ; “ our only chance 
is to keep up our hope and spirits. I think that, after 
all, we must just stay here till the mist clears up. 
Don’t be frightened, Ken,” he said, taking the boy’s 


148 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


hand ; “ nothing can happen to us but what God in- 
tends. ” 

“ But the night,” whispered Kenrick, who was most 
overpowered of the three ; “ fancy a night spent here. 
Mist and cold, hunger and dark. Oh, this horrible un- 
certainty and suspense! Oh, for some light!” he cried, 
in an agony ; “ I could almost die if we had but light.” 

“O God, give us light,” murmured Walter, echoing 
the words, and uttering aloud unconsciously his intense 
prayer; and then he fell on his knees, and the others, 
too," hid their faces in their hands as they stood upon 
the bleak mountain-side, and prayed to Him whom 
they knew to be near them, though they were there 
alone; and saw nothing save the ground they knelt 
upon, and the thick clammy fog moving slowly around 
and above them in aimless and monotonous change. 
To their excited imagination that fog seemed like a 
living thing; it seemed as though it were actuated 
with a cold and deathful determination, and as though 
it were peopled by a thousand silent spirits, leaning 
over them and chilling their hearts as they shrouded 
them in the gigantic foldings of their ghostly robes. 

And soon, as though their passionate prayer had 
been heard, and an angel had been sent to rend the 
mist, the wind, rushing up from the ravine, tore for 
itself a narrow passage, — and a gleam of wavering 
light broke in upon them through the white folds of 
that deathful curtain, showing them the wall of sunken 
precipice, and the dark outline of Bardlyn hill. If 
this had been a moment in which they could have ad- 
mired one of Nature’s most awfully majestic sights, 
they would have gazed with enthusiastic joy on the 
diorama of valley and mountain revealed through this 
mighty rent in the side of their misty pavilion, filled 
up by the blue far-off sky; but at this moment of 
dominant terror they had no room for any other 
thoughts but how to save their lives from the danger 
that surrounded them. 

“Light! ” cried Walter, springing up eagerly ; “ thank 
God ! Perhaps the mist is going to clear away.” But 
the hope was fallacious, for in the direction where their 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


149 


path lay all was still dark, and the chilly mist soon 
closed again, though not so densely, over the wound 
which the breeze from the chasm below them had mo- 
mentarily made. 

“Did you see that we are close to the Razor? ’’said 
Walter, who alone of the three maintained his usual 
courage, because custom had made him more familiar 
with the danger of the hills. “Now a thought strikes 
me, Ken and Power. If you like we’ll make an attempt 
to cross the Razor. The only thing will be not to lose 
one’s footing ; one can’t miss the way at any rate, and 
when once we get to Bardlyn it’s as easy to get down 
to the road which runs round it to St.WTnifred’s as it is 
to walk across the school court.” 

“ Cross the Razor? ” said Kenrick ; “why, none but 
some few shepherds ever dare to do that.” 

“True, but what man has done, man can do. I’m 
certain it’s our best chance.” 

“ Not for me ; ” “ Or for me,” said the other two. 

“ Well, look here,” said Walter; “it would be very 
dangerous of course, but while we talk our chance of 
safety lessens. You tw T o stay here. I’ll try the Razor ; 
if I get safe across I shall reach Bardlyn village in no 
time, and there I could get some men to come and help 
you over. Do you mind? I won’t leave you if you’d 
rather not.” 

“ O Walter, Walter, don’t run the risk,” said Power ; 
“it’s too awful.” 

“It’s lighter than ever on that side,” said Walter; 
“ I’m not a bit afraid. I’m certain we could not 
get safe down the other way, and we should die of 
exposure if we spent the night here. Remember, we’ve 
only had one or two sandwiches apiece. It’s the last 
chance.” 

“Oh, no, you really shan’t, dear Walter. You don’t 
know how terrific the Razor is. I’ve often heard men 
say that they wouldn’t cross it for a bag of gold,” said 
Power. 

“Don’t hinder me, Power; I’ve made up my mind. 
Good-bye, Power; good-bye, Ken,”* he said, wringing 
their hands hard. “ If I get safe across the Razor, I 


150 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


shan’t be more than an hour and a half at the very latest 
before I stand here with you again, bringing help. 
Good-bye ; God bless you both. Pray for me, but don’t 
fear. ” 

So saying, Walter tore himself away from them, and 
with an awful sinking at heart they saw him pass 
through the spot where the mist was thinnest, and 
plant a steady step on the commencement of the Razor 
path. 



GILES AND WALTER ON THE RAZOR PATH. 


CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. 

ON THE RAZOR. 


Nw yap 6y rravTcaatv etc), gvpov lararai ciKpyg 
'H paka kvypog bkedpog ... ye fii&vai . — 77. x. 173-4. 

The brave boy knew well that the fate of the others, 
as well as his own, hung on his coolness and steadiness, 
and stopping for one moment to see that he would have 
light enough to make sure of his footing all along the 
path, he turned round, shouted a few cheery words to 
his two friends, and stepped boldly on the ledge. 

He was accustomed to giddy heights, arid his head 
had never turned as he looked down the cliffs at St. 
Winifred’s, or the valleys at home. But his heart be- 
gan to beat very fast with the painful sense that every 
step which he accomplished was dangerous, and that 
the nerve which would readily have borne him through 
a brief effort would here have to be sustained for fully 
twenty minutes, which would be the least possible time 
in which he could make the transit. The loneliness, 
too, was frightful ; in three minutes he was out of 
sight of his friends; and to be there without a corn- 

151 


152 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


panion, in the very heart of the mighty mountains, 
traversing this haunted and terrible path, with not 
an eye to see him if he should slip and be dashed 
to atoms on the unconscious rocks ; — this thought al- 
most overmastered him, unmanned him, filled him with 
a weird sense of indescribable horror. He battled 
against it with all his might, but it came on him like 
a foul harpy again and again, sickening his whole soul, 
making his forehead glisten with the damp dews of 
anticipated death. At last he came to a stunted wil- 
low which had twisted its dry roots into the thin soil, 
and, clinging to the stem of it with both arms, he was 
forced to stop and close his eyes, and praying for God’s 
help, he summoned together all the faculties- of his soul, 
and buffeted this ghastly intruder away so thoroughly 
that it did not again return. As a man might shoot 
a vulture, and look at it lying dead at his feet, so with 
the arrow of a heartfelt supplication Walter slew the 
hideous imagination that had been flapping its wings 
over him ; nor did he stir again till he was sure that 
it had lost its power. And then, opening his eyes, he 
bore steadily and cautiously on, till all of a sudden, in 
the fast-fading sunlight, something glinted white in 
the valley beneath his feet. In a moment it flashed 
upon him that this was the unreached skeleton a thou- 
sand feet below, the sight of which imparted a super- 
stitious horror to the Devil’s Way, as the peasants 
called the narrow path along the Razor. Nor was this 
all ; for some rags of the man’s dress, torn off by his 
headlong fall, still fluttered on a stump of blackthorn 
not thirty feet below. And now, again, the poor boy’s 
heart quailed with an uncontrollable emotion of physi- 
cal and mental fear. For a moment he tottered, every 
nerve was loosened, his legs bent under him, and drop- 
ping down on his knees, he clutched the ground with 
both hands. It was just one of those swift spasms of 
emotion, on which, in moments of peril, the crisis 
usually depends. Had Walter’s will been weak, or his 
conscience a guilty one, or his strength feeble, or his 
body unstrung by ill-health, he would have succumbed 
to the sudden terror, and, fainting first, would the 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


153 


next instant have rolled over the edge to sudden and 
inevitable death. 

All these results were written before him as with fire, 
as he shut his eyes and clung with tenacious grasp to 
the earth. But happily his mind was strong, his con- 
science stainless, his powers vigorous, his body in pure 
health, and in a few moments, which seemed to him an 
age, he had recovered his presence of mind by one of 
those noble efforts which the will is ever ready to 
make for those who train it right. Before he opened 
his eyes he had braced himself into a thorough 
strength, and once more commending himself to God, 
he rose firm and cool to continue his journey, averting 
his glance from the spectacle of death which gleamed 
below. 

lie found that his best plan was to fix his eyes rigidly 
on the path, and not suffer them to swerve for a 
moment to either side. Whenever he did so, the 
wavering sensation came over him again, but so long 
as he trod carefully, and never let his eyes wander off 
the place of his footsteps, he found that he got along 
securely and even swiftly. He had only one more diffi- 
culty with which to contend. In one place the sort of 
path which the Razor presented was broken and crum- 
bled away, and here Walter’s heart again sank despair- 
ingly within him, as his attention was suddenly arrested 
by the additional and unexpected peril. But to turn 
back was now out of the question, and as it seemed 
impossible to walk for these few feet, he again knelt 
down, and crawled steadily along on hands and knees, 
about the length of two strides, until the path was 
hard and firm enough for him to proceed as before. 
The end was now accomplished ; in five minutes more 
he sprang on the broad firm side of Bardlyn hill, and 
shouting aloud to relieve his spirits from their tumult 
of joy and thankfulness, he raced down Bardlyn, gained 
very quickly the mountain road, and ran at the top of 
his speed till, just as the sun was setting, he reached 
the group of cottages which took their name from the 
hill on which they stood. 

Knocking at the first cottage, he inquired for some 


154 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 



guide or shepherd who was thoroughly acquainted 
with all the mountain paths, and was directed to the 
house of a man named Giles, who had been occupied 
for years among the neighboring sheep-walks. 

Giles listened to his story with open eyes. “ Thee 
bi’st coom over t’ Razor 
along Devil’s Way,” said 
he, in amazement; “then 
thee bi’st just the plookiest 
young chap I’ve seen 
for many a day.” 

“ We must get 
back over it, too, 
to reach them,” 
said Walter. 

“ Oh ay ; I be’- 
ant afear’d of t’ 

Razor; I’ve cross- 
ed him many a 
time, and I’ll take 
a bit rope over and 
help they other 
chaps. We’ll take 
a lantern, too. 

Don’t you be a- 
f eared, sir, we’ll 
get ’em all right,” 
he said, observ- 
ing how anxious 
and excited Wal- 
ter seemed to be. 

“ Come, then,” 
said Walter, 

“ quick, quick. I 
promised to come 
back to them at 
once. You shall be well paid for your trouble.” 

“Tut, tut,” said the man, “ the pay’s naught. Why 
I’d come if it were only a dumb sheep in danger, let 
alone a brace of lads like you.” 

They set off with a lantern, a rope, two stout staves, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


155 


and some food, and Giles was delighted at the quick 
and elastic step of the young mountaineer. The 
lantern they soon extinguished. It was not needed, 
for though the sun had now set, a glorious full moon 
had begun to pour her broad flood of silver radiance 
over the gloomy hills by the time they had reached 
Bardlyn rift. 

“ There ain’t no call for you to cross again, sir,” said 
the man; “I’ll just go over by myself, and look after 
the young gentlemen.” 

“ Oh, let me come, I must come,” said Walter ; “the 
mist’s quite off it now, so that it’s just as easy under 
this moonlight as when I came ; and, besides, if you 
take a coil of the rope in your hand I’ll take hold of 
the other end.” 

“Well, you’re the right sort, and no mistake,” said 
the man. “ God bless you for a brave young heart. 
And, truth tell, I’ll be very glad to have ye with me, 
for they do say as how poor old Waul’s ghost haunts 
about here, and it ’ud be fearsome at night. I know 
that there’s One as keeps them as has a good con- 
science, but yet I’ll be glad to have ye all the same.” 

The moonlight flung on every side the mysterious 
and gigantic shadows of rocks and hills, seeming to 
glimmer with a ghastly hue as it fell and struggled 
into the black depths of the untrodden rift ; but habit 
made the Devil’s Way seem nothing to the mountain 
shepherd, and he protected Walter (who twined round 
his wrist one end of the rope) from the danger of 
stumbling, as effectually as Walter protected him 
from all ghostly fears. When they reached the 
broken piece, the only difference he made was to fix 
his staff firmly, walk with great caution, and plant his 
feet deeply into the earth, bidding Walter follow in 
the traces he made, and supporting him firmly with 
his hand. They got across in much less time than 
Walter had occupied in his first passage, and as they 
reached Appenfell they saw the two boys standing 
dimly on the verge of the moonlight mist, while all 
below them the rest of Appenfell was still wrapt, as in 
some great cerecloth, by the snowy folds of seething 


156 


ST. WINIFRED’S. 


cloud. “Good heavens! but who are those?” said 
Walter, pointing to two shadowy and gigantic figures 
which also faced them. “Oh, who are those?” he 
asked wildly, and in such alarm that if the shepherd 
had not seized him firmly he must have fallen. 

“There, there — don’t" be frighted,” said Giles; 
“ those be’ant no ghosts, but they be just our own 
shadows on the mist. It’s a queer thing, but I’ve seen 
it often and often on these hills, and some scliolards 
have told me as how that kind of thing be’ant uncom- 
mon on mountains.” 

“ What a goose I was to be so horribly frightened,” 
said Walter ; “ but I didn’t know that there were any 
spectres of that sort on Appenfell. All right, Giles ; 
go on.” 

Till Walter and the shepherd had taken their last 
step from the Devil’s Way on to the side of Appenfell, 
the boys stood watching them in intense silence; but 
no sooner were they safe than Power and Ken rick ran 
up to Walter, poured out their eager thanks and 
pressed his hands in all the fervor of affectionate 
gratitude. They felt that his courage and readiness 
had, at the risk of his own life, saved them from such 
a danger as they had never in their lives experienced 
before. Already they were suffering with hunger and 
shuddering with the December air; their limbs felt 
quite benumbed, their teeth were chattering lugu- 
briously, and their faces were blue and pinched with 
cold. They eagerly devoured the brown bread and 
potato-cake which the man had brought, and let him 
and Walter chafe a little life into their shivering bodies. 
By this time fear was sufficiently removed to enable 
them to feel some sort of appreciation of the wild beauty 
of the scene, as the moonlight pierced on their left the 
flitting scuds of restless mist, and on their right fell 
softly over Bardlyn hill, making a weird contrast 
between the tender brightness of the places where it 
fell, and the pitchy gloom that hid the depths of the 
rift, and brooded in those undefined hollows over 
which the precipices leaned. 

To return down Appenfell was (the experienced 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


157 


shepherd informed them) quite hopeless. In such a 
mist as that, which might last for an indefinite time, 
even he would be totally unable to find his way. But 
now that they were warm and satisfied with food, and 
confident of safety, they even enjoyed the feeling of 
adventure when Giles tied them together for their 
return across the Devil’s Way. First he tied the rope 
round his own waist, then round Power’s and Kenrick’s, 
and finally, as there was not enough left to go round 
Walter’s waist, he tied the end round his right arm. 
Thus fastened, all danger was tenfold diminished, if 
not wholly removed, and the two unaccustomed boys 
felt a happy reliance on the nerve and experience of 
Giles and Walter, who were in front and rear. It was 
a scene which they never forgot, as the four went step 
by step through the moonlight along the horrible 
ledge, safe only in each other’s help, and awestruck at 
their position, not daring to glance aside or to watch 
the colossal grandeur of their own shadows as they 
were flung here and there against some protruding 
rock. Power was next to Walter, and when they 
reached the spot beneath which the whiteness glinted 
and the rags fluttered in the wind, Walter, in spite of 
himself, could not help glancing down, and whispering 
“ Look,” in a voice of awe. Power unhappily did look, 
and as all the boys at St. Winifred’s were familiar 
with the story of the shepherd’s fate, and had even 
known the man himself, Power at once was seized with 
the same nervous horror which had agitated Walter, — 
grew dizzy, stumbled, and slipped down, jerking Ken- 
rick to his knees by the sudden strain of the rope. 
Happily the rope checked Power’s fall, and Kenrick’s 
scream of horror startled Giles, who, without losing 
his presence of mind, instantly seized Kenrick with an 
arm that seemed as strong and inflexible as if it had 
been hammered out of iron, while at the same moment 
Walter, conscious of his rashness, clutched hold of 
Power’s hand and raised him up. No word was spoken, 
but after this the boys kept close to their guide, who 
were ready to grasp them tight at the first indi- 
cation of an uneven footstep, and who almost lifted 


158 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


them bodily over every more difficult or slippery part. 
The time seemed very long to them, but at last they 
had all reached Bardlyn hill in safety, and placed 
the last step they ever meant to place on the narrow 
and dizzy passage of the Razor’s edge. 

And stopping there they looked back at the dangers 
they had passed — at Appenfell piled up to heaven with 
white clouds ; at Bardlyn rift looming in black abysses 
beneath them ; at the thin broken line of the Devil’s 
Way. They looked 

as a man with difficult short breath, 

Forespent with toiling, ’scaped from sea to shore, 

Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands 
At gaze. 

They stood silent till Power said, in ejaculations of 
intense emphasis, “ Thank God ! ” — and then pointing 
downwards with a shudder, “O Walter! ’’and then 
once again, “ Thank God ! ” — which Walter and Kenrick 
echoed; and then they passed on without another 
word. But those two words, so uttered, were enough. 

The man, who was more than repaid by the sense 
that he had rendered them a most important aid, and 
who had been greatly delighted by their manly bear- 
ing, entirely refused to take any money in payment for 
what he had done. 

“Nay, nay,” he said ; “ we poor folks are proud too, 
and I won’t have none of your money, young gentlemen. 
But let me tell you that you’ve had a very narrow 
escape of your lives out there, and I don’t doubt you’ll 
thank the good God for it with all your hearts this 
night ; and if you’ll just say a prayer for old Giles too, 
he’ll vally it more than all your moneys. So now, 
good-night to you, young gentlemen, for you know your 
way now easy enough. And if ever you come this 
way again, maybe you’ll come in and have a chat for 
remembrance’s sake.” 

“Thank you, Giles, that we will,” said the boys. 

“And since you won’t take any money you’ll let me 
give you this,” said Walter. “You must let me give 
you this; it’s not worth much, but it’ll show you that 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


159 


Walter Evson didn’t forget the good turn you did us.” 
And lie forced on the old shepherd’s acceptance a hand- 
some knife, with several strong blades, which he hap- 
pened to have in his pocket; while Power and Kenrick, 
after a rapid whispered consultation, promised to bring 
him in a few days a first-rate plaid to serve him as a 
slight reminder of their gratitude for his ready kind- 
ness. Then they all shook hands with many thanks, 
and the three boys, eager to find sympathy in their 
perils and deliverance, hastened to St. Winifred’s, 
which they reached at nine o’clock, just when their ab- 
sence was beginning to cause the most serious anxiety. 

They arrived at the arched gateway as the boys were 
pouring out of evening chapel, and as every one was 
doubtfully wondering what had become of them, and 
whether they had encountered any serious mishap. 
When the Famulus admitted them, the fellows 
thronged round them in crowds, pouring into their 
ears a succession of eager questions. The tale of 
Walter’s daring act flew like wildfire through the 
school, and if any one still retained against him a par- 
ticle of ill-feeling, or looked on his character with sus- 
picion, it was this evening replaced by the conviction 
that there was no better or more gallant boy than 
Walter among them, and that if any equalled him in 
merit it was one of those whose intimate friendship 
for him had on this day been deepened by the grateful 
knowledge that to him, in all human probability, they 
owed their preservation from an imminent and over- 
powering peril. Even Somers, in honor of whose 
academic laurel the whole holiday had been given, and 
who that evening returned from Cambridge, was less 
of a hero than either of the three who had thus climbed 
the peak of Appenfell and braved so serious. an advent- 
ure; far less crowned with schoolboy admiration than 
the young boy who had thrice crossed and recrossed 
the Devil’s Way, and who had crossed it first unaided 
and with full knowledge of its horrors, while the light 
of winter evening was dying away, and the hills around 
him reeked like a witch’s caldron with wintry mist. 

Walter, grateful as he was for each pat on the back 


160 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and warm pressure of the hand, which told him how 
thoroughly and joyously his doings were appreciated, 
was not intoxicated by the enthusiasm of his boyish 
ovation. It was indeed a proud thing to stand among 
those four hundred schoolfellows, the observed of all 
observers, greeted on every side by happy, smiling, 
admiring faces, with every one pressing forward to 
give him a friendly grasp, every one anxious to claim 
or to form his acquaintance, and many addressing him 
with the kindliest greetings whose very names he hardly 
knew ; — but the deeper and more silent gratitude of 
his chosen friends, and the sense of something bravely 
and rightly done, was more to him than this. Yet 
this was something very sweet. When the admiration 
of boys is fairly kindled it is the brightest, the most 
genial, the most generously hearted in the world. Few 
succeed in winning it ; but he who has been a hero to 
others in manhood only, has had but a partial taste of 
the rich triumph experienced by him who has had the 
happiness in boyhood of being a hero among boys. 

Here let me say how one or two people noticed Wal- 
ter when first they saw him that evening. 

While numbers of boys were shaking hands with 
him, whom he hardly saw or recognized in the crowd 
by the mingled moonlight and lamplight that streamed 
over the court where they stood, Walter felt one 
squeeze that he recognized and valued. Looking 
among the numerous faces, he saw it was Henderson 
who was greeting him without a word. No nonsense 
or joke this time, and Walter noticed that the boy’s 
lips were trembling with emotion, and that there was 
a light as of tears in his laughter-loving eyes. 

“ Ah, Henderson ! ” said Walter, in that tone of real 
regard and pleasure which is the truest sign and 
pledge of friendship, and which no art can counterfeit, 
“ I’m so glad to see you again ; how did you and Dubbs 
get on ? ” 

“ All right, Walter,” said Henderson ; “ but lie’s gone 
to bed with a bad headache. Come in and see him before 
you go to bed. I know he’d like to say good-night.” 

*‘Well done, Evson — well done indeed,” was the 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 161 

remark of Somers, as he noticed Walter for the first 
time since the scene of the Private Koom. 

“Walter, I am proud of you,” said Mr. Percival, as 
he passed by. Mr. Paton, who was with him, said 
nothing, but Walter knew all that he would have ex- 
pressed when he caught his quiet approving smile, and 
felt his hand rest for a moment, as with the touch of 
Christian blessing, on his head. 

It is happiness at all times to be loved, and to de- 
serve the love; but happiest of all to enjoy it after 
sorrow and sin. But we must escape from this ordeal 
of prosperity, of flattering words and intoxicating 
fumes of praise, as soon as we can. Who would not 
soon be enervated in that tropical and luxurious 
atmosphere? If it be dangerous, happily it is not 
often that he or we shall breathe its heavy sweetness, 
but for others are the dangers we shall mostly undergo. 

“ Dr. Lane wants you,” said the Famulus, just in 
time to save the tired boys from their remorseless 
questioners. They went at once to the head-master’s 
house. He received them with a stately yet sincere 
kindness ; questioned them on the occurrences of the 
day ; warned them for the future against excursions 
so liable to accident as the winter ascent of Appenfell ; 
and then spoke a few friendly words to each of them. 

For both Kenrick and Power he had a strong personal 
regard, and for the latter especially a feeling closely 
akin to friendship and affection. After they were 
gone he kept Walter behind, and said, “I am indeed 
most sincerely rejoiced, Evson, to meet you again 
under circumstances so widely different from those in 
which I saw you last. I have heard for some time 
past how greatly you have improved, and how admirably 
you are now doing. I am glad to have the opportunity 
of assuring you myself how entirely you have suc- 
ceeded in winning back my approbation and esteem.” 
Walter attended with a glistening eye, and the- master 
shook hands with him as he bowed and silently with- 
drew. 

“ Tea has been ordered for you in Master Power’s, 
study,” said the footman, as they left the master’s house, 

1 1 


162 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH. 

THE GOOD RESOLVE. 

Am I my brother’s keeper ? — Gen. iv. 9. 

“Let’s come and see Dabbs before tea,” said Walter, 
on rejoining the other two ; “ Henderson told me he 
was ill in bed, poor fellow.” 

They went at once to the cottage, detached from 
the rest of the school buildings, to which all invalids 
were removed, and they were allowed to go to Dau- 
beny’s room ; but although he was expecting their 
visi the had fallen asleep. They noticed a worn and 
weary expression upon his countenance, but it was 
pleasant to look at him ; for although he was a very 
ordinary-looking boy, with somewhat heavy features, 
yet whatever beauty can be infused into any face by 
honesty of purpose and innocence of heart, was to be 
found in his ; and you could not speak to Daubeny for 
five minutes without being attracted by the sense that 
you were talking to one whose character was singularly 
free from falsehood or vanity and singularly unstained 
by evil thoughts. 

“ There lies one of the best and worthiest fellows in 
the school,” whispered Power, as he raised the candle 
to look at him. 

Low as he had spoken, the sound awoke the sleeper. 
He opened his eyes dreamily at first, but with full 
recognition afterwards, and said, “ O you fellows, I’m 
so delighted to see you ; when I saw Henderson last, 
he told me that you hadn’t come back, and that people 
were beginning to fear some accident ; and I suppose 
that’s the reason why I’ve been dreaming so uneasily, 
and fancying that I saw you tumbling down the rift, 
and all kinds of things.” 


ST . WINIFRED'S. 163 

“ Well, we were very near it, Dubbs ; but thanks to 
Walter, we escaped all right,” said Power. 

Daubeny looked up inquiringly. “We must tell 
you all about it to-morrow,” said Power. “ How are 
you feeling ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know ; not very well ; but it’s no 
matter; I daresay I shall be all light soon.” 

“ Hush, you young gentlemen,” said the nurse ; 
this’ll never do; you oughtn’t to have awoke Master 
Daubeny just as he was sleeping so nice.” 

“ Very sorry, nurse ; good-night, Dubbs ; hope you’ll 
be all right to-morrow,” said they, and then adjourned 
to Power’s study. 

The gas was lighted in the little room, and the 
matron regarding them as heroes, had sent them a 
very tempting tea. They ate it almost in silence, for 
they were quite tired out. It seemed an age since 
they had started in the morning with Henderson and 
Daubeny. Directly tea was finished, Kenrick, ex- 
hausted with fatigue and excitement, fell asleep in his 
chair, with his head thrown back and his lips parted. 

“ There, I think that’s a sign that we ought to be go- 
ing to bed,” said Walter, laughing as he pointed at him. 

“ Oh, no,” said Power, “ not yet ; it’s so jolly sitting 
here; don’t wake him, but come and draw your chair 
next to mine by the fire and have a chat.” 

Walter obeyed the invitation, and for a few minutes 
they both sat gazing into the fire, reading faces in the 
embers, and pursuing their own thoughts. Each of 
them was happy in the other’s presence; and Walter, 
though more than a year Power’s junior, and far below 
him in the school, was delighted with the sense of 
fully possessing, in the friendship of this promising 
and gifted boy, a treasure which any one in the school 
might well have envied him. 

« It’s been a strange day, hasn’t it, Walter?” said 
Power at last, laying his hand on Walter’s, and look- 
ing at him. “ I shall never forget it ; you have thrown 
a new light on one’s time here.” 

“ Have I, Power ? How ? I didn’t know it.” 

“Why, on the top of Appenfell there, you opened 


164 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


my eyes to the fact that I’ve been living here a very 
selfish life. I know that I get the credit of being very 
conceited and exclusive, and all that sort of thing; 
but being naturally shy, I thought it better to keep 
rather aloof from ail but the very few towards whom I 
felt at all drawn. I see now,” he said sadly, “ that at 
the bottom this was mainly selfishness. Why, Wal- 
ter, alb the time I’ve been here, I haven’t done as much 
for any single boy as you, a new fellow, have done for 
little Eden this one half-year. But there’s time to do 
better yet ; and by God’s help I’ll try. I’ll give Eden 
the run of my study to-morrow ; and as there’s plenty 
of room, I’ll look out for some other little chap who 
requires a refuge for the destitute.” 

“Thank you, for Eden’s sake,” said Walter; “I’m 
sure you’ll soon begin to like him, if he gets at home 
with you.” 

“But that’s the worst of it,” continued Power; “so 
few ever do get at home with me. I suppose my man- 
ner’s awkward — or something; but I’d give anything 
to make fellows friendly in five minutes as you do. 
How do you manage it?” 

“I really don’t know ; I never think about my own 
manner, or anything else. I suppose if one feels the 
least interest in any fellow, that he will probably feel 
some interest in me ; and so, somehow, I’m on the best 
terms with all I care to know.” 

“Well, Ken and I had a long talk after you left us, 
to cross the Devil’s Way ; and I hope that the memory 
of that may make us three friends firm and fast, ten- 
der and true, as long as we live. We were in a hor- 
rible fright about you ; and I suppose that, joined to 
our own danger, gave a solemn cast to our conversa- 
tion ; but we agreed that if we three, as friends, were 
united in the silent resolution to help others, and es- 
pecially new fellows and young, as much as ever we 
can, we might do a great deal. Tell me, Walter, didn’t 
you find it a very hard thing when you first came, to 
keep right among all sorts of temptations?” 

“ Yes, I did, Power, very hard ; and I confess, too, 
that I sometimes wondered that not one boy, though 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


165 


there are, as I see now, lots of thoroughly good and 
right fellows here, ever said one word or did one thing 
to help me.” 

“ It’s all wrong, all wrong,” said Power; “but it was 
you first who made me see it. Walter, I shall pray to- 
night that God, who has kept us safe, may teach and 
help us here to live less for ourselves. Who knows 
what we might not do for the school?” 

They both sat for a short time in thoughtful silence. 
Boys do not often talk openly together about prayer or 
religion, though perhaps they do so even more than 
men do in common life. It is right and well that it 
should be so; it would be unnatural and certainly 
harmful were it otherwise. And these boys would 
probably never have talked to each other thus, if a 
common danger had not broken down completely the 
barriers of conventional reserve. Never again from 
this day did they allude to this sacred resolution ; but 
they acted up to it, or strove to do so, not indeed un- 
waveringly, yet with manful courage, in the strength 
of that pure, strong, beautiful unity of heart and pur- 
pose which this day had cemented between them for 
the rest of their school life. 

“ But you seem to aim higher than I do, Power,” 
said Walter; “I certainly found lots of wickedness 
going on here, but I never hoped to change that. All 
I hoped to do was to save one or two fellows from be- 
ing cruelly bullied and spoiled. We can’t alter the 
wrong tone which nearly all the fellows have on some 
matters.” 

“Yet,” said Power, “there was once a man, a single 
man, in a great corrupted host, who stood between the 
living and the dead, and the plague was stayed.” 

“ Then rose up Phineas and prayed, and so the plague 
ceased,” whispered Walter to himself. 

All further conversation was broken by Kenrick, who 
at this moment awoke with a great yawn, and looking 
at his watch, declared that they ought to have been in 
bed long ago. 

“ Good-night, Ken ; I hope we shall sleep as sound 
as you,” said Power. 


166 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


“Walter here will dream of skeletons and moonlit 
precipices, I bet,” said Kenrick. 

“Not I, Ken; I’m far too tired. Good-night, both.” 

Sleepy as they were, two of those boys did not fall 
asleep that night till they had poured out, with all the 
passion of full hearts, words of earnest supplication for 
the future, of trembling gratitude for the past. Two 
of them ; — for Kenrick, with all the fine points of his 
character, was entirely destitute of any sense of relig- 
ion, and had in many points the standard of a school- 
boy rather than that of a Christian. 

When Walter reached his room, the rest were asleep, 
but not Eden. He sat up in his bed directly Walter 
entered, and his eyes were sparkling with animation 
and pleasure. 

“O Walter,” he said, “I couldn’t go to sleep for joy. 
Every one’s praising you to the skies. I am so proud of 
you, and it is so very good of you to be friends with me.” 

“Tush, Arty,” said Walter, smiling, “one would 
think I’d done something great to hear you talk, 
whereas really it was nothing out of the way. I meant 
to have taken you with us, but I thought it would be 
too far for you.” 

“Taking me with you, and Kenrick, and Power!” 
said Eden, opening his large eyes ; “ how kind of you, 
Walter! but only fancy Power or Kenrick walking 
with me ! ” 

“ Why not, Arty ? Power’s going to ask you to- 
morrow to sit in his study, and learn your lessons there 
whenever you like.” 

“Power ask mef’ 

“You! Why not?” 

“ Why, he’s such a swell.” 

“ Well, then, you must try and be a swell too.” 

“No, no, Walter; I’m doing ten times as well as I 
did, but I shall never be a swell like Power,” said the 
child simply. “And I know it’s all your doing, not 
his. Oh, how shall I ever learn to thank and pay you 
for all you do for me ? ” 

“ By being a good and brave little boy, Arty. Good- 
night, and God bless you.” 

“ Good-night, Walter,” 



THEY FOUND EDEN WITH HIS FEET UP. 


CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. 

THE MARTYR-STUDENT. 

Impositique rogis iuvenes ante ora parentum. — Georg, iv. 
1. 477. 

The days that followed as the boys resumed the 
regular routine of school work, passed by very rapidly 
and pleasantly — rapidly, because the long-expected 
Christmas holidays were approaching; pleasantly, 
because the boys were thoroughly occupied in working 
up the subjects for the final examination. For Walter 
especially, those days were lighted up with the warm 
glow of popularity and success. He was aiming with 
boyish eagerness to win one more laurel by gaining the 
first place in his form, and whenever he was not taking 
exercise, either in some school-game or by a ramble 
along his favorite cliffs and sands, he was generally to 
be found hard at work in Mr. PercivaPs rooms, learning 

167 


168 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


the voluntary repetitions, or going over the trial sub- 
jects with Henderson, who had now quite passed the 
boundary line which separated the idle from the in- 
dustrious boys. 

One morning Henderson came in chuckling and 
laughing to himself, “ So Power’s taking a leaf out of 
your book, Walter. I declare lie’s becoming a regular 
sociable grosbeak.” 

“ Sociable grosbeak ? what do you mean ? ” 

“Oh, ddn’t you know that Pm writing a drama called 
the * Sociable Grosbeaks,’ in which you and Ken and I 
are introduced ; I didn’t mean to introduce Power, he 
wasn’t gregarious enough ; but I shall now, and he 
shall prologize.” 

“ But why is he more sociable now ? ” 

“ Why, he’s actually let one of the — oh, I forgot, I 
mustn’t call names — well, he’s given Eden the run of 
his study.” 

“Oh yes, I knew that,” said Walter, smiling. “At 
first, it was the funniest thing to see them together, 
they were both so shy ; but after a day or two they 
were quite friends, and now you may find Eden 
perched any day in Power’s window-seat, grinding 
away at his Greek verbs, and as happy as a king. 
Power helps him in his work, too. It’ll be the making 
of the little fellow. Already he’s coming out strong in 
form.” 

“ Hurrah for the grosbeaks,” said Henderson. “ I 
did mean to chaff Power about it, but I won’t, for it 
really is very kind of him.” 

“Yes ; and so it is of Percival to let us sit here ; but 
I wish that dear old Dubbs could be doing trial- work 
here with us.” 

“ He’s very ill,” said Henderson, looking serious ; 
“ very ill, I’m afraid. I saw him to-day for a minute, 
but he seemed too weak to talk.” 

“Is he? poor fellow! I knew that he was staying 
out, but I’d no notion that it was anything dangerous.” 

“ I don’t know about dangerous , but he’s quite ill. 
Poor Daubeny ; you know how very very patient and 
good he is, yet even he can’t help being sad at falling 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


169 


ill just now. You know he was to have been con- 
firmed to-morrow week, and lie’s afraid that now he 
won’t be well enough, and will have to put it off.” 

“ Yes ; lie’s mentioned his confirmation to me several 
times. Lots of fellows are going to be confirmed this 
time — about a hundred, I believe — but I don’t suppose 
one of them thinks of it so solemnly as dear old 
Dubbs — unless, indeed, it’s Power, who also is to be 
confirmed.” 

The confirmation was to take place on a Sunday, 
and the candidates had long been engaged in a course 
of preparation. The intellectual preparation was care- 
fully undertaken by Dr. Lane and the tutors of the 
boys; but this answer of the lips was of comparatively 
little value, except in so far as it tended to guide, and 
solemnize, and concentrate the preparation of the 
heart. In too many, this approaching responsibility 
produced no visible effect in the tenor of outward life 
— they talked and thought as lightly as before, and did 
not elevate the low standard of schoolboy morality ; 
but there were some hearts in which the dreary and 
formless chaos of passion and neglect then first felt the 
divine stirring of the brooding wings, and some 
spiritual temples were from that time filled more 
brightly than before with the Shechinah of the Pres- 
ence, and bore, as in golden letters on a new entabla- 
ture, the inscription, “ Holiness to the Lord.” 

To this confirmation some of the best boys, like 
Power and Daubeny, were looking forward, not with 
any exaggerated or romantic sentimentality, but with 
a deep humility, a manly exultation, an earnest hope. 
They were ready and even anxious to confirm their 
baptismal vow, and to be confirmed in the sacred 
strength which should enable them for the future more 
unswervingly to fulfil it. Of these young hearts the 
grace of God took early hold, and in them reason and 
religion ran together like warp and woof to frame the 
web of a sweet and exemplary life. Bound by the 
most solemn and public recognition of, and adhesion 
to, their Christian duty, it would be easier for them 
thenceforth to confess Christ before men — easier to do 


170 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with 
their God. 

“ Do you think it would be possible to see Dubbs ? 
I should so like to see him,” said Walter. 

“ Let’s ask Percival, lie’s in the next room ; and if 
Dubbs is well enough I know he’d give anything to see 
you.” 

“ Please, sir,” said Walter, after knocking for ad- 
mission at the door of the inner room, “ do you think 
that Henderson and I might go to the cottage and see 
Daubeny ? ” 

“ I don’t know, Walter. But I want very much to 
see him myself, if Dr. Keith will let me, so I’ll come 
with you and inquire.” 

Mr. Percival walked with the two boys to the cottage, 
and, after an injunction not to stay too long, they were 
admitted to the sick boy’s bedside. At first in the 
darkened room, they saw nothing; but Daubeny’s 
voice — weak and low, but very cheerful — at once 
greeted them. 

“Oh, thank you, sir, for coming to see me. Hallo! 
Walter, and Flip too ; I’m so glad to see you — you in a 
sick room again, Flip ! ” 

“We would have come before if we had known that 
we might see you,” said the master. “ How are you 
feeling, my boy ?” 

“ Not very well, sir ; my head aches sadly sometimes, 
and I get so confused.” 

“Ah, Daubeny, it’s the overwork. Didn’t I entreat 
you, my child, to slacken the bent bow a little ? you’ll 
be wiser in future, will you not ?” 

“In future — Oh yes, sir ; if ever I get well; I’m afraid,” 
he said, with a faint smile, “ that you’ll find me stupider 
than ever.” 

“ Stupid, my boy; none of us ever thought you that. 
It is not the stupid boys that get head removes as you 
have done the last term or two. I should very much 
enjoy a talk with you, Daubeny, but I mustn’t stay 
now, the doctor says, so I’ll leave these two fellows 
with you, and give them ten minutes — no longer — to 
tell you all the school news.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


171 


“ In future wiser — in future,” repeated Daubeny in 
a low voice to himself once or twice ; “ ah yes, too late 
now. I don’t think he knows how ill I am, Walter. 
My mother’s been sent for ; I expect her this evening. 
I shall at least live to see her again.” 

“ Oh, don’t ! ” said Henderson, whose quick and sen- 
sitive nature was easily excited ; “don’t talk like that, 
Daubeny; we can’t spare you; you must stay for our 
sake.” 

“ Dear old fellow,” said Daubeny, “ you’ll have no- 
body left to chaff; but you can spare me easily 
enough ; ” and he laid his fevered hand kindly on Hen- 
derson’s, who immediately turned his head and brushed 
away a tear. “ Oh, don’t cry,” he added, in a pained 
tone of voice; “I never meant to make you cry. I’m 
quite happy, Flip.” 

“ O Daubeny ! we can’t get on without you ! ” said 
Henderson. 

“Daubeny! I hardly know the name,” said the sick 
boy, smiling ; “ no, Flip, let it be Dubbs as of old — a 
nice heavy name to suit its owner ; and you gave it 
me, you know, so it’s your property, Flip, and I hardly 
know myself by any other now.” 

“O Dubbs, I’ve plagued you so,” said Henderson, 
sobbing as if his heart would break ; “I’ve never done 
anything but tease you, and laugh at you, and you’ve 
always been so good and so patient to me. Do forgive 
me.” 

“ Pooh ! ” said Daubeny, trying to rally him. “ Listen 
to him, Walter; who’d think that Flip was talking? 
Teased me, Flip ? ” he continued, as Henderson still 
sobbed at intervals, “not you! 1 always enjoyed your 
chaff, and I knew that you liked me at heart. You’ve 
all been very kind to me. Walter, I’m so glad I got 

to know you before I It’s so pleasant to see you 

here. Give me your hand ; no, Flip, let me keep yours 
too; it’s getting dark. I like to have you here. I 
feel so happy. I wish Power and Ken would come 
too, that I might see all my friends.” 

“ Good-night, Daubeny ; I can’t stay, I mustn’t stay,” 
said Henderson ; and, pressing his friend’s hand, he 


172 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


hurried out of the rpom to indulge in a burst of grief 
which he could not contain ; for, under his trifling 
and nonsensical manner, Henderson had a very warm 
and feeling heart, and though he had always made 
Daubeny a subject of ridicule, he never did it with 
a particle of ill-nature, and felt for him — dissimilar as 
their characters were — a real and deep regard. 

“Look after him when 1 am gone, Walter,” said 
Daubeny sadly, when he had left the room. “He is 
a dear good fellow, but so easily led. Poor Flip ; lie’s 
immensely changed for the better since you came, 
Walter.” 

“I have been very fond of him all along,” said 
Walter; “he is so full of laughter and fun, and he’s 
very good with it all. But, Dubbs, you are too de- 
sponding ; we shall have you here yet for many pleasant 
days.” 

“ I don’t know ; perhaps so, if God wills. I am very 
young. I should like to stay a little longer in the 
sunshine. Walter, I should like to stay with you. I 
love you more, I think, than any one except Power ; ” 
and as he spoke, a quiet tear rolled slowly down 
Daubeny’s face. 

Walter only pressed his hand. “You can’t think 
how I pitied you, Walter, in that accident about 
Paton’s manuscript. When all the fellows were cut- 
ting you, and abusing you, my heart used to bleed for 
you; you used to go about looking so miserable, so 
much as if all your chances of life were over. I’m afraid 
I did very little for you then, but I would have done 
anything. I felt as if I could have given you my right 
hand.” 

“But, Dubbs, you were the first who spoke to me 
after that happened; the first who wasn’t ashamed to 
walk with me. You can’t think how grateful I felt to 
you for it ; it rolled a cold weight from me. It was 
like stretching a saving hand to one who was drown- 
ing ; for every one knew how good a fellow you were, 
and your countenance was worth everything to me 
just then.” 

“You really felt so?” said Daubeny, brightening 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


173 


up, while a faint flush rested for a moment on his pale 
face ; “ O Walter, it makes me happy to hear you say 
so.” There was a silence, and, with Walter’s hand 
still in his, he fell into a sweet sleep, with a smile upon 
his face. When he was quite asleep, Walter gently 
removed his hand, smoothed his pillow, looked affec- 
tionately at him for a moment, and stole silently from 
the room. 

“ How did you leave him ? ” asked Henderson eagerly, 
when Walter rejoined him in Mr. Percival’s room. 

“ Sleeping soundly. I hope it will do him good. 
I did not know how much you cared for him, Flip.” 

“That’s because I always made him a butt,” said 
Henderson remorsefully; “but I didn’t really think 
he minded it, or I wouldn’t have done so. I hardly 
knew myself that I liked him so. It was a confounded 
shame of me to worry him as I was always doing. 
Conceited donkey that I was, I was always trying to 
make him seem stupid ; yet all the while I could have 
stood by him cap in hand. O Walter, I hope he is not 
going to die! ” 

“ Oh no, I hope not ; and don’t be miserable at the 
thought of teasing him, Flip; it was all in fun, and he 
was never wounded by any word of yours. Remem- 
ber how he used to tell you that he was all the time 
laughing at you, not you at him. Come a turn on the 
shore, and let’s take Power or Ken with us.” 

“ Sociable grosbeaks, again,” said Henderson, laugh- 
ing in the midst of his sorrow. 

“Yes,” said Walter; “never mind. There are but 
few birds of the sort after all.” 

They found Eden with his feet up, and his hands 
round his knees, on the window- seat, perfectly at his 
ease, and chattering to Power like a young jackdaw. 
A thrill of pleasure passed through Walter’s heart, as 
a glance showed him how well his proposal had suc- 
ceeded. Power evidently had had no reason to repent 
of his kindness, and Eden looked more like the bright 
and happy child which he had once been, than ever 
was the case since he had come to St. Winifred’s. He 
was now clean and neat in dress, and the shadows 


174 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


which had begun to darken his young face were chased 
away. 

Power readily joined them in their stroll along the 
shore, and listened with affectionate sympathy to their 
account of Daubeny. 

“ What is it that lias made him ill?” he asked. 

“There’s no doubt about that,” answered Walter; 
“ it’s overwork which has brought on a tendency to 
brain fever.” 

“I was afraid so, Walter;” and then Power re- 
peated half to himself the fine lines of Byron on Kirke 
White— 


“ So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 

No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 

And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; 

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; 

While the same plumage that had warmed his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.” 

“What grand verses!” said Walter. “Poor, poor 
Daubeny ! ” 

“ I’ve never had but one feeling about him myself,” 
said Power, “ and that was a feeling almost like rever- 
ence. I hope and trust that he’ll be well enough for 
to-morrow week. I always looked forward to kneeling 
next to him when we were confirmed.” 

“ Ah, you loved him, Power,” said Henderson, “ be- 
cause your tastes were like his. But I owe a great 
deal to him ; — more than I can ever tell you. I don’t 
feel as if I could tell you now, while he lies there so 
ill, poor fellow. He has saved me more than once 
from vigorous efforts to throw myself away. But for 
him I should have gone to the devil long, long ago. 
I was very near it once.” He sighed, and as they 
walked by the violet line of the evening waves, he 
offered up in silence an earnest prayer that Daubeny 
might live. 

The blind old poet would have said that the winds 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


175 


carried the prayer away and scattered it. But no winds 
can scatter, no waves can drown, the immortal spirit 
of one true prayer. Unanswered it may be — but scat- 
tered and fruitless, not ! 




176 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. 

THE SCHOOL BELL. 

To me the thought of death is terrible, 

Having such hold of life ; to you it is not 
More than the sudden lifting of a latch ; 

Nought but a step into the open air, 

Out of a tent already luminous 

With light that shines through its transparent folds. 

Longfellow’s Golden Legend. 

“ I’ye got a good piece of news for you, Master Dau- 
beny,” said the kind old school-nurse. 

“ What is it? is my mother here?” he said eagerly. 
“ Oh ! let her come and see me.” 

She was at the door, and the next moment his arms 
were round her neck in a long embrace. “ Barling, 
darling mother,” he exclaimed, “ now I shall be happy, 
now that you have come. Nay, you mustn’t cry, 
mother,” he said, as he felt her fast-flowing tears upon 
his forehead ; “ you’ve come to' help me in bearing up.” 

“Dearest Johnny,” she said, “I trust yet that God 
will spare the widow’s only son ; He who raised the 
son of the widow of Nain will pity us.” 

“ His ways are not ours, mother dear ; I do not think 
that I shall recover. My past life hangs before me 
like a far-off picture already ; I lie and look at it almost 
as if it were not mine, and my mind is quite at peace ; 
only sometimes my head is all confused.” 

“God’s will be done, Johnny,” sobbed the poor 
lady. “ But I do not think I can live, if you be taken 
from me.” 

“Taken — but not forever, mother,” he said, looking 
up into her face. 

“O Johnny, why , why did you not spare yourself, 
and work less ? It is the work which has killed you.” 


ST. WINIFRED’ S. 


177 


“ Only because it fell heavier on me than on other 
boys. They got through it quickly, but I was not so 
clever, and it cost me more to do my duty. I tried to 
do it, mother dear, and God helped me. All is well as 
it is. Oh, my head, my head ! ” 

“You must rest, darling. My visit and talk has 
excited you. Try to go to sleep.” 

“ Then sit there, mother, opposite me, so that I may 
see you when I wake.” 

She kissed his aching brow, and sat down, while he 
composed himself to rest. She was a lady of about 
fifty, with bands of silver hair smoothed over her calm 
forehead, and in appearance not unlike her son. But 
there was something very sweet and matronly about 
her looks, and it was impossible to see her without 
feeling the respect and honor which was her due. 

And she sat there, by the bedside, looking upon her 
only son, the boy who had been the light of her life ; 
and she knew that he was dying — she knew that he 
was fading away before her eyes. Yet there was a 
sweet and noble resignation in her anguish ; there was 
a deep and genuine spirit of submission to the will of 
heaven, and a perfect faith in God’s love, whatever 
might be the issue, in every prayer she breathed, as 
with clasped hands, and streaming eyes, and moving 
lips, she gazed upon his face. He might appear dull 
and heavy to others, but to her he was dear beyond all 
thought ; and now she was to lose him. In her inmost 
heart she knew that she must suffer that great pang ; 
that God was taking to Himself the son who had been 
so good and true to her, so affectionate, so sweet-tem- 
pered, so unselfish, that even from his gentle and quiet 
infancy he had never by his conduct caused her a 
moment’s pain. She had long been looking forward to 
the strong and upright manhood which should follow 
this pure boyhood ; but that dear boy was not destined 
to be the staff of her declining years ; her hands were 
to close his eyes in the last long sleep, and sh6 was to 
pass alone under the overshadowing rocks that close 
around the valley of human life. God help the mother’s 
heart who must pass through scenes like this ! 

12 


178 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


Poor Daubeny could not sleep. Brain fever is usually 
accompanied by delirium, and as he turned restlessly 
upon his pillow, his mind began to wander away to 
other days and scenes. 

“ Stupid, sir ? yes, 1 know I am, but I can’t help it ; 
I’ve really done my best. I was up at five o’clock this 
morning, trying, trying so hard to learn this repetition. 
Indeed, indeed, I’m not idle, sir. I’ll try to do my duty 
if I can. O Power, I wish I were like you ; you learn 
so quickly, and you never get abused as I do after it 
all.” 

And then the poor boy fancied himself sitting under 
the gas-lamp in the passage as he had so often done, 
and trying to master one of his repetition lessons, re- 
peating the lines fast to himself as he used to do — 

“ Hac arte Pollux et vagus Hercules, 

Enisus — enisus arces — enisus arces attigit igneas, 

Quos inter Augustus 

“ How does it go on ? — 

“Hac arte Pollux et vagus Hercules, 

Enisus arces attigit igneas, attigit igneas, 

Quos inter Augustus recumbens 

“ Oh, what does come next ? ” and he stopped with an 
expression of pain on his face, pressing his hands tight 
over his brow. 

“Don’t go on with the repetition, Johnny dear,” 
said the poor mother. “ I’m sure you know it enough 
now.” 

“ Oh no ! not yet, mother ; I shall be turned, I know 
I shall to-morrow, and it makes him so angry ; he’ll 
call me idle and incorrigible, and all kinds of things.” 
And then he began again — 

“ Sed quid Typhoeus aut validus Mimas, 

Aut quid minaci Porphyrion statu, 

Quid Rhoetus — Rhoetus — quid Rhoetus 

“ Oh, I shall break down there, I know I shall ; ” and 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 179 

he burst into tears. “ It’s no good trying to help me, 
Power, I can't learn it.” 

“ Leave off for to-night at least, Johnny,” said his 
mother, in a tone of anguish ; “ you can learn the rest 
to-morrow. Oh, what shall I do ? ” she asked, turning 
to the nurse ; “ I cannot bear to hear him go on like 
this.” 

“ Be comforted, ma’am,” said the nurse, wiping away 
her own tears. “He’s a dear good lamb, and he’ll 
come to hisself soon afore he goes off.” 

“ Must he die, then ? ” she asked, trembling in every 
limb. 

“ Hush, good lady ; we never know what God may 
please to do in His mercy. We must bow to His gra- 
cious will, ma’am, as you knows well, I don’t doubt. 
He’s fitter to die than many a grown man is, poor 
child, and that’s a blessing. I wish though he wasn’t 
a- repeating of that there heathenish Latin.” 

But Daubeny’s voice was still humming fragments 
of Horace lines, sometimes with eager concentration, 
and then with pauses at parts where his memory failed, 
at which he would grow distressed and anxious — 

“ Quid Rhoetus . . . quid Rhoetus evulsisque truncis, 
Enceladus. 

“ Oh, I cannot learn this ; I think I’m getting more 
stupid every day. Enceladus ” 

“ If you love me, Johnny, give it up for to-night, 
that’s a darling boy,” said his mother. 

“But, mother it’s my duty to know it ; you wouldn’t 
have me fail in duty, mother dear, would you ? Why, 
it was you who told me to persevere, and to do all 
things with my might. Well, I will leave it for to- 
night.” Then, still unconscious of what he was doing, 
the boy got up and prayed, as it was evident that he 
had done many a time, that God would strengthen his 
memory and quicken his powers, and enable him to do 
his duty like a man. It was inexpressibly touching to 
see him as he knelt there — thin, pale, emaciated, the 


180 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


shadow of his former self, kneeling in his delirium to 
offer up his old accustomed prayer. 

And when he got into bed again, although his mind 
still wandered, he was much calmer, and a new direction 
seemed to have been given to his thoughts. The prayer 
had fallen like dew on his aching soul. He fancied 
himself in Power’s study, where for many a Sunday 
the two boys had been used to sit, and where they had 
lately learnt or read to each other their favorite hymns. 
Fragments of these hymns he was now repeating, 
dwelling on the words with an evident sense of pleas- 
ure and belief — 

“ A noble army — men and boys, 

The matron and the maid, 

Around the Saviour’s throne rejoice 
In robes of light arrayed. 

‘ ‘ They climbed the steep ascent of heaven, 

Mid peril, toil and pain ; 

O God, to us may strength be given, 

To follow in their train. 

“Isn’t that beautiful, Power? 

“ And when on upward wing, 

Cleaving the sky, 

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

Upwards I fly ; 

Still all my song shall be, 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, — 

Nearer to Thee.” 

And as he murmured to himself in a soothed tone of 
voice these verses, and lines of “ Jerusalem the Golden,” 
and “ O for a closer walk with God,” and “ Rock of 
Ages,” the wearied brain at last found repose, and 
Daubeny fell asleep. 

He lingered on till the end of the week. On the 
Saturday he ceased to be delirious, and the lucid in- 
terval began which precedes death. It was then that 
he earnestly entreated to be allowed to see those school- 

friends whose names had been so often on his lips 

Power, Walter, and Henderson. The boys, who had 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


181 


daily and eagerly inquired for him, entered with a 
feeling of trembling solemnity the room of sickness. 
The near presence of death filled them with an inde- 
scribable awe, and they felt desolate at the approaching 
loss of a friend whom they loved so well. 

“ I sent to say good-bye,” he said smiling sweetly. 
“ You must not cry and grieve for me. I am happier 
than lever felt before. Good-bye, Walter. It’s for a 
long, long, long, time ; but not forever. Good-bye, my 
dear old Flip — naughty fellow to cry so, when I am 
happy ; and when I am gone, Flip, think of me some- 
times, and of talks we’ve had together, and take your 
side manfully for God and Christ. Good-bye, Power, 
my best friend ; we meant to be confirmed together, 
you know, but God has ordered it otherwise.” And 
then he whispered low — 

“ Lord, shall we come ? come yet again ? 

Thy children ask one blessing more ? 

To come not now alone, but then 
When life, and death, and time are o’er ; 

Then, then, to come, O Lord, and be 
Confirmed in heaven — confirmed by Thee. 

“ O Power, that line fills me with hope and joy ; think 
of it for me when I am dead ; ” and his voice trembled 
with emotion as he again murmured, ‘Confirmed in 
heaven — confirmed by Thee.’ Pm afraid Pm too weak 
to talk any more. Oh, what a long, long good-bye it 
will be, for years, and years, and years ; to think that 
when you have gone out of the room we shall never 
meet in life again, and I shall never hear your pleasant 
voices. O Flip, you make me cry against my will by 
crying so. It’s hard to say, but it must be said at last, 
Good-bye, God bless you, with all my heart.” He laid 
his hand on their heads as they bent over him, and 
once more whispering the last “Good-bye,” turned 
away his face, and made the pillow wet with his warm 
tears. 

The sound of his mother’s sobs attracted him. “ Ah, 
mother darling, we are alone now ; you will stay with 
me till I die. I am tired.” 


182 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


“ I feared that tlieir visit would excite you too much, 
my child.” 

“ Oh no, mother ; I couldn’t bear to die without 
seeing them, I loved them so much. Mother, will you 
sing to me a little — sing me my favorite hymn.” 

She began in a low, sweet voice, 

“ My God, my Father, while I stray 
Far from my home on life’s rough way, 

O teach me from my heart to say, 

Thy will be done, 

Thy will be ” 

She stopped, for sobs choked her voice. “ I am 
sorry I cannot, Johnny. But I cannot bear to think 
how soon we must part.” 

“ Only for a short time, mother, a short time. I said 
a long time just now, but now it looks to me quite short, 
and I shall be with God. I see it all now so clearly. 
Do you remember those lines — 

“ The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed, 

Let’s in new light through chinks that time has made, 

How true they are ! O darling mother, how very, very 
good you have always been to me, and I pay you with 
all my heart’s whole love.” He pressed upon her lips 
a long, long kiss, and said, “ Good-night, darling mother. 
I am falling asleep, I think.” 

His arms relaxed their loving embrace, and glided 
down from her shoulder ; his head fell back ; the light 
faded from his soft and gentle eyes, and he was asleep. 

Rightly he said “ asleep,” — the long sleep that is the 
sweetest and happiest in that it knows no waking 
here ; the long sweet sleep that no evil dreams disturb ; 
the sleep after which the eyes open upon the light of 
immortality, and the weary heart rests upon the bosom 
of its God. Yes, Daubeny had fallen asleep. 

God help thee, widowed mother; the daily endear- 
ments, the looks of living affection, the light of the 
boy’s presence, are for thee and for thy home no more. 
There lies the human body of thy son ; his soul is with 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 183 

the white-robed, redeemed, innumerable multitude in 
the Paradise of God. 

For hours, till the light faded into darkness, as this 
young life had faded into death, she sat fixed in that 
deep grief which finds no utterance, and knows of no 
alleviation, with little consciousness save of the dead 
presence, and of the pang that benumbed her aching 
heart. And outside rang the sound of games and 
health, and the murmur of boy-voices came to her 
forlorn ear. There the stream of life was flashing 
joyously and gloriously in the sunshine, while here, in 
this darkened room, it had sunk into the sands, and 
lost itself under the shadow of the dark boughs. But 
she was a Christian ; and as the sweet voices of mem- 
ory, and conscience, and hope, and promise whispered 
to her in her loneliness their angel messages, her heart 
melted and the tears came, and she knelt down and 
took the dead hand of her son in hers, and said, be- 
tween her sobs, while her tear-stained eyes were turned 
to heaven, “O God, teach me to understand Thy will.” 

And through the night the great bell of the church 
of St. Winifred’s tolled the sound of death ; and, 
mingled with it stroke for stroke, in long, tremulous, 
thrilling notes that echoed through the silent build- 
ings, rang out the thin clear bell of St. Winifred’s 
School. The tones of that school bell were usually 
only heard as they summoned the boys to lessons with 
quick and hurried beatings. How different now were 
the slow occasional notes, — each note trembling itself 
out with undisturbed vibrations which quivered long 
upon the air, — with which it told that for one at least 
whom it had been wont to warn, hurry was possible 
no longer, and there was boundless leisure now ! There 
was a strange pulse of emotion in the hearts of the 
listening boys, when the sound of those two passing 
bells struck upon their ears as they sat at evening 
work, and told them that the soul of their schoolfellow 
had passed away, and that God’s voice had summoned 
His young servant to His side. 

“You hear it, Henderson?” said Walter, who sat 
next to him. 


184 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ Yes,” answered Henderson in an awe-struck voice ; 
“ Daubeny is dead.” 

The rest of that evening the two boys sat silent and 
motionless, full of the solemn thoughts which can 
never be forgotten. And for the rest of that evening 
the deep church bell tolled, and the shrill school bell 
tolling after it, shivered out into the wintry night air 
its tremulous message that the soul of Daubeny had 
passed away. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


185 


CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. 

FAREWELL. 

Be the day weary or be the day long 
At last it ringeth the even-song. 

There was a very serious look on the faces of all 
the boys as they thronged into chapel the next morn- 
ing for the confirmation service. It was a beautiful 
sight to see the subdued yet happy air, full at once of 
humility and hope, wherewith many of the youthful 
candidates passed along the aisle, and knelt before the 
altar, and with clasped hands and bowed heads awaited 
the touch of the hands that blessed. As those young 
soldiers of Christ knelt meekly in their places, resolv- 
ing with pure and earnest hearts to fight manfully in 
His service, and praying with child-like faith for the 
aid of which they felt their need, it was indeed a 
spectacle to recall the ideal of virtuous and Christian 
boyhood, and to force upon the minds of many the 
contrast it presented with the other too familiar 
spectacle of a boyhood coarse, defiant, brutal, ignorant 
yet conceited, young in years but old in disobedience, 
in insolence, in sin. 

When the good bishop, in the course of his address, 
alluded to Daubeny’s death, there was throughout the 
chapel instantly that silence that can be felt — that 
deep unbroken hush of expectation and emotion which 
always produces so indescribable an effect. 

“ There was one,” he said, “ who should have been 
confirmed to-day, who is not here. He has passed 
away from us ; he will never be present at an earthly 
confirmation ; he is ‘ confirmed in heaven — confirmed 
by God.’ I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that for that 


186 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


confirmation he was indeed prepared, and that he 
looked forward to it with some of his latest thoughts. 
I hear that he was pre-eminent among you for the 
piety, the purity, the amiability of his life and char- 
acter, and his very death was caused by the intense 
earnestness of his desire to use aright the talents which 
God had entrusted to him. Oh ! such a death of one 
so young yet so fit to die is far happier than the long- 
est and most prosperous of sinful lives. Be sobered 
but not saddened by it. It is a proof of God’s merciful 
and tender love that this one of your schoolfellows was 
taken in the clear and quiet dawn of a holy life, and 
not some other in the scarlet blossom of precocious 
and deadly sin. Be not saddened therefore at the loss, 
but sobered by the warning. The fair, sweet, purple 
flower of youth falls and fades, my young brethren, 
under the sweeping scythe of death, no less surely 
than the withered grass of age. Oh ! be ready — be 
ready with the girded loins and the lighted lamp — to 
obey the summons of your God. Who knows for which 
of us next, or how soon, the bell of death may toll ? 
Be ye therefore ready, for you know not at what day 
or at what hour the voice may call to you ! ” 

The loss of a well-known companion whom all re- 
spected and many loved — the crowding memories of 
school life— the still small voice of every conscience, 
gave strange meaning and force to the bishop’s simple 
words. As they listened, many wept in silence, while 
down the cheeks of Walter, of Power, and of Henderson, 
the tears fell like summer rain. 

In the evening Walter was seated thoughtfully by 
the fire in Power’s study, while Power was writing at 
the table, stopping occasionally to wipe his glistening 
eyes. 

“ He was my earliest friend here,” he said to Walter, 
almost apologetically, as he hastily brushed off the 
drop which had fallen and blurred the paper before 
him. “ But I know it is selfish to be sorry,” he added, 
as he pushed the paper towards Walter. 

“ May I read this, Power?” asked Walter. 

“ Yes, if you like; ’’and he drew his chair by his, 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


187 

while Walter read in Power’s small clear handwrit- 
ing— 


A FAREWELL. 

Never more 1 

Like a dream when one awaketh 
Vanishing away ; 

Like a billow when it breaketh 
Scattered into spray ; 

Like a meteor’s paling ray, 

Such is man, do all he can ; — 

Nothing that is fair can stay. 

Sorrow staineth, man complaineth, 

Sin remaineth ever more ; 

Like a wave upon the shore 
Soundeth ever from the chorus 
Of the spirits gone before us, 

“Ye shall meet us, ye shall greet us 

In the sweet homes of earth, in the places of our birth, 

Never more again, never more ! ” 

So they sing, and sweetly dying 
Faints the message of their voices, 

Dying like the distant murmur, when a mighty host rejoices, 
But the echoes are replying with a melancholy sighing, 

Never more again ! never more 1 

Far away, 

Far far away are the homes wherein they dwell, 

We have lost them, and it cost them 
Many a tear, and many a fear 
When God forbade their stay ; 

But their sorrow, on the morrow 

Ceased in the dawning of a lighter, brighter day ; 

And our bliss shall be certain, when death’s awful curtain, 
Drawn from the darkness of mortal life away, 

To happy souls revealeth what it darkly now concealeth, 
Yielding to the glory of heaven’s eternal ray. 

Far far away are the homes wherein they dwell, 

But we know that they are blest, and ever more at rest, 

And we utter from our hearts, “ It is well.” 

“May I keep them, Power ? ” he asked, looking up. 

“ Do, Walter, as a remembrance of to-day.” , 

“ And may I make one change, which the bishop’s 
sermon suggested ? ” 

“By all means,” said Power; and Walter taking a 
pencil, added after the line “ Nothing that is fair can 


188 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


stay,” these words — which Power afterwards copied, 
writing at the top, “ In memoriam, J. D.” — 

Nothing that is fair can stay ; 

But while Death’s sharp scythe is sweeping, 

We remember ’mid our weeping, 

That a Father-hand is keeping 
Every vernal bloom that falleth underneath its chilly sway. 
And though earthly flowers may perish, 

There are buds His hand will cherish, 

And the things unseen Eternal — these can never pass away ; 
Where the angels shout Hosanna, 

Where the ground is dewed with manna, 

These remain and these await us in the homes of heaven for aye! 

The lines are in Walter’s desk ; and he values them 
all the more for the tears which have fallen on them 
and blurred the neatness of the fine clear handwriting. 

On the following Tuesday our boys saw the dead 
body of their friend. The face of poor Daubeny looked 
singularly beautiful with the placid lines of death, as 
all innocent faces do. It was the first time they had 
seen a corpse; and as Walter touched the cold cheek, 
and placed a spray of evergreen in the rigid hand, he 
was almost overpowered with an awful sense of the 
sad sweet mystery of death. 

“It is God who has taken him to Himself,” said 
Mrs. Daubeny, as she watched their emotion. “ I 
shall not be parted from him long. He has left you 
each a remembrance of himself, dear boys, and you 
will value them, I know, for my poor child’s sake, and 
for his widowed mother’s thanks to those who loved 
him.” 

For each of them he had chose.n, before he died, one 
of his most prized possessions. To Power he left his 
desk ; to Henderson, his microscope ; to Ken rick, a 
little gold pencil-case ; and to Walter, a treasure which 
he deeply valued, a richly-bound Bible, in which he 
had left many memorials of the manner in which his 
days were spent; and in which he had marked many 
of the rules which were the standard of 'his life, and 
the words of hope which sustained his gentle and 
noble mind. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


189 


The next day he was buried ; only the boys in his 
own house, and those who had known him best, fol- 
lowed him to the grave. They were standing in two 
lines along the court, and the plumed hearse stood at 
the cottage door. Just at that moment the rest of the 
boys began to flock out of the school, for lessons were 
over. Each as he came out caught sight of the hearse, 
the plumes waving and whispering in the sea-wind, and 
the double line of mourners ; and each, on seeing it, 
stood where he was, in perfect silence. Their numbers 
increased each moment, till boys and masters alike 
were there; and all by the same sudden impulse 
stopped where they were standing when first they saw 
the hearse, and stood still without a word. The scene 
was the more strangely impressive because it was ac- 
cidental and spontaneous. Meanwhile, the coffin was 
carried downstairs, and placed in the hearse, which 
moved off slowly across the court between the lines of 
bareheaded and motionless mourners. It was thus 
that Daubeny left St. Winifred’s, and passed under 
the Norman arch ; and till he had passed through, the 
boys stood fixed to their places, like a group of statues 
in the usually noisy court. 

He was buried in the churchyard under the tower of 
the grand old church. It was a lovely spot ; the tor- 
rent murmured near it; the shadows of the great 
mountains fell upon it; and as you stood there in the 
sacred silence of that memory -haunted field, you heard 
far off the solemn monotone of the everlasting sea. 
There they laid him, and the stream of life, checked 
for a moment, flashed on again with turbulent and 
sparkling waves. Ah me ! — yet why should we sigh 
at the merciful provision, which causes that the very 
best of us, when we die, leaves but a slight and tran- 
sient ripple on the waters, which a moment after flow 
on as smoothly as before? 

Mrs. Daubeny left St. Winifred’s that evening; her 
carriage looked strange with her son’s boxes and other 
possessions piled up in it. Who would ever use that 
cricket-bat or those skates again? Power and Walter 
shook hands with her at the door as she was about to 


190 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


start; and just at the last moment, Henderson came 
running up with something, which he put on the car- 
riage seat without a word. It was a bird-cage, con- 
taining a little favorite canary, which he and Dau- 
beny had often fed. 



ST. WINIFRED' S. 


191 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. 

kenrick’s home. 

Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o’er like a city, with gossip, and scandal, and 
spite. 

Tennyson, Maud. 

It was the last evening. The boys were all assem- 
bled in the great schoolroom to hear the result of the 
Examination. The masters in their caps and gowns 
were seated round Dr. Lane on a dais in the centre of 
the room ; and every one was eager to know what 
places the boys had taken, and who would win the 
various form prizes. Dr. Lane began from the bottom 
of the school, and at the last boy in each form, so that 
the interest of the proceedings kept on culminating to 
the grand climax. The first name that will interest us 
was Eden’s, and both Walter and Power were watching 
anxiously to see where he would come out in his form. 
Power had been so kindly coaching him in his work 
that they expected him to be high ; but it was as much 
to his surprise as to their gratification that his name 
was read out third. Jones and Harpour were, as was 
natural, last in their respective forms. 

At length Dr. Lane got to Walter’s form. Last but 
one came Howard Tracy, who was listening with a fine 
superiority to the whole announcement. Anthony and 
Franklin were not far from him. Henderson expected 
himself to be about tenth ; but the tenth name, the 
ninth, and the eighth all were read, and he had not 
been mentioned ; his heart was beating fast, and he 
almost fancied that there must have been some mis- 
take ; but no — Dr. Lane read on : 

“ Seventh, Gray ; 


192 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ Sixth, Mackworth ; 

“ Fifth, Whalley; 

“ Fourth , Henderson ; ” 

and Walter had hardly done patting him on the back, 
and congratulating him, when Dr. Lane had read — 

“ Third, Manners ; 

“ Second, Carlton ; 

“ First ” — the Doctor always read the word “ First ” 
with peculiar emphasis, and then brought out the 
name of the boy who had attained that distinction 
with great empressement — “ First , Evsonr 

Whereupon it was Henderson’s turn to pat him on 
the back, which he did very vigorously ; and not only 
so, but in his enthusiasm began to clap — a demonstra- 
tion which ran like wildfire through all the ranks of 
the boys, and before Dr. Lane could raise his voice to 
secure silence — for approba- 
tion on those occasions in the 
great schoolroom was not at 
all selon rZgle — our young hero 
had received a regular ovation. 
For since the day on Appen- 
fell, W alter had been the favor- 
ite of the school, and they were 
only too glad to follow Hen- 
derson in his irregular ap- 
plause. There was an intoxi- 
cating sweetness in this popu- 
larity. Could Walter help 
keenly enjoying the general 
regard which thus, defiant of 
rules, broke out in his hon- 
or into spontaneous acclama- 
tions ? 

Dr. Lane’s stern “ Silence ! ” 
heard above the uproar soon 
reduced the boys to order, and 
he proceeded with the list. 
Kenrick was read out first in his form, and Power, as 
a matter of course, again first in the second fifth, al- 
though in that form he was the youngest boy. Somers 



ST. WINIFRED'S. 


193 


came out head of the school, by examination as well 
as by seniority of standing ; and in his case, too, the 
impulse to cheer was too strong to be resisted. The 
head of the school was, however, tacitly excepted from 
the general rule, and Dr. Lane only smiled while he 
listened to the clapping, which showed that Somers 
was regarded with esteem and honor by the boys, in 
spite of his cold manners and stern regime. 

“ Hurrah for the Sociable Grosbeaks ! ” said Hender- 
son, as the boys streamed out of the room. “Why, 
we carry all before us ! And only fancy me fourth ! 
Why, I’m a magnificent swell, without ever having 
known it. You look out, Master Walter, or I shall 
have a scrimmage with you for laurels.” 

“ Good,” said Walter. “ Meanwhile, come and help 
me to pack up my laurels in my box. And then for 
home ! Hurrah ! ” 

And he began to sing the exquisite air of 

“ Domum, domum, dulce domum 
Dulce, dulce, dulce domum ; ” 

in which Power and Henderson joined heartily ; while 
Kenrick walked on in silence. 

Next day the boys were scattered in every direction 
to their various homes. It need not be said that 
Walter passed very happy holidays that Christmas- 
time. Power came and spent a fortnight with him; 
and let every boy who has a cheerful and affectionate 
home imagine for himself how blithely their days 
passed by. Power made himself a universal favorite, 
always unselfish, always merry, and throwing himself 
heartily into every amusement which the Evsons pro- 
posed. He and they were mutually sorry when the 
time came for them to part. 

From Semlyn Lake, Walter’s home, to Fuzbj, Ken- 
rick’s home, the change is great indeed ; yet I must 
take the reader there for a short time, before we return 
to the noisy and often troubled precincts of St. Wini- 
fred’s School. 

Before Power came to stay with the Evsons, Walter, 


194 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


with his father’s full permission, had written to ask 
Kenrick to join them at the same time, and this is the 
answer he got in reply. 

“My dear Walter — I can’t tell you how much your 
letter tempted me. I should so like to come ; I would 
give anything to come and see you. To be with you 
and Power at such a place as Semlyn must be — O 
Walter, it almost makes me envious to think of you 
there. But I can’t come, and I’ll tell you frankly the 
reason. I can’t afford, or rather I mean that my 
mother cannot afford, the necessary travelling expenses. 
I look on you, Walter, as my best school friend, so I 
may as well say at once that we are very, very poor. 
If I could even get to you by walking some of the way, 
and going third-class the rest, I would jump at the 

chance, but Lucky fellow, you know nothing of 

the res angusta domi. 

“ You must be amused at the name of this place, 
Fuzby-le-Mud. What charming prospects the name 
opens, does it not? I assure you the name fits the 
place exactly. My goodness ! how I do hate the place. 
You’ll ask why then we live here ? Simply because 
we must. Some misanthropic relation left us the house 
we live in, which saves rent. 

“ Yet, if you were with me, I think I could be happy 
even here. I don’t venture to ask you. First of all 
we couldn’t make you one-tenth part as comfortable as 
you are at home; secondly, there isn’t the ghost of 
an amusement here, and if you came, you’d go back to 
St. Winifred’s with a fit of blue devils, as I always 
do ; thirdly, the change from Semlyn to Fuzby-le-Mud 
would be like walking from the Elysian fields and the 
asphodel meadows, into mere ftopj3opos, as old Edwards 
would say. So I don't ask you ; and yet if you could 

come why, the day would be marked with white in 

the dull calendar of — Your ever affectionate 

“ Harry Kenrick.” 

As Fuzby lay nearly in the route to St. Winifred’s, 
Walter, grieved that his friend should be doomed to 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


195 


such dull holidays, determined, with Mr. Evson’s leave, 
to pay him a three days’ visit on his way to school. 
Accordingly, towards the close of the holidays, after a 
hopeful, a joyous, and an affectionate farewell to all at 
home, he started for Fuzby, from which he was to ac- 
company Kenrick back to school ; a visit fraught, as it 
turned out, with evil consequences, and one which he 
never afterwards ceased to look back upon with regret. 

The railroad, after leaving far behind the glorious 
hills of Semlyn, passes through country flatter and 
more uninteresting at every mile, until it finds itself 
fairly committed to the fens. Nothing but dreary 
dykes, muddy and straight, guarded by the ghosts of 
suicidal pollards, and by rows of dreary and desolate 
mills, occur to break the blank gray monotony of the 
landscape. Walter was looking out of the window 
with curious eyes, and he was wondering what life in 
such conditions could be like, when the train uttered 
a despairing scream, and reached a station which the 
porter announced as Fuzby-le-Mud. Walter jumped 
down, and his hand was instantly seized by Kenrick 
with a warm and affectionate grasp. 

“ So you’re really here, Walter. I can hardly believe 
it. I half repent having brought you to such a place ; 
but I was so dull.” 

“I shall enjoy it exceedingly, Ken, with you. Shall 
I give my portmanteau to some man to take up to the 
village?” 

“ Oh no ; here’s a well, T may as call it a cart at 

once — to take it up in. The curate lent it me, and he 
calls it a pony-carriage; but it is, you see, nothing 
more or less than a cart. I hope you won’t be ashamed 
to ride in it.” 

“I should think not,” said Walter gayly, mounting 
into the curious little oblong wooden vehicle. 

“It isn’t very far,” said Kenrick, “and I dare- 
say you don’t know any one about here; so ;t won’t 
matter.” 

“Pooh, Ken; as if I minded such nonsense.” In- 
deed Walter would not have thought twice about the 
conveyance, if Kenrick had not harped upon it so much, 


196 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and seemed so much ashamed of it, and mortified at 
being obliged to use it. 

“Shall I drive?” asked Walter. 

“Drive? Why, the pony is stone blind, and as 
scraggy as a scarecrow, so there’s not much driving to 
be had out of him. Fancy if the aristocratic Power 
or some other St. Winifred’s fellow saw us! Why, it 
would supply Henderson with jokes for six weeks,” 
said Kenrick, getting up, and touching the old pony 
with his whip. Both he and Walter were wholly un- 
conscious that their equipage had been seen and con- 
temptuously scrutinized by one of their schoolfellows. 
Unknown to Walter, Jones was in the train; and, 
after a long stare at the pony-chaise, had flung him- 
self back in his seat to indulge in a long guffaw, and 
in anticipating the malicious amusement he should 
feel in retailing at St. Winifred’s the description of 
Kenrick’s horse and carriage. Petty malignity was a 
main feature of Jones’s mind. 

“ That is Fuzby,” said Kenrick laconically, pointing 
to a straggling village from which a few lights were 
beginning to glimmer; “and I wish it were buried 
twenty thousand fathoms under the sea.” 

Ungracious as the speech may seem, it cannot be 
wondered at. A single muddy road runs through 
Fuzby. Except along this road — muddy and rutty in 
winter, dusty and rutty in summer — no walk is to be 
had. The fields are all more or less impassable with 
ditches and bogs. Kenrick had christened it “The 
Dreary Swamp.” Nothing in the shape of a view is 
to be found anywhere, and barely a single flower will 
deign to grow. The air is unhealthy with moisture, 
and the only element to be had there in perfection is 
earth. 

“All this, Kenrick’s father — who had been curate of 
the village — had fancied would be at last endurable to 
any man upheld by a strong sense of duty. So when 
he had married, and had received the gift of a house 
in the village, and took thither his young and beauti- 
ful bride, intending there to live and work until some- 
thing better could be obtained. He was right. Over 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


197 


the mere disadvantages of situation he might easily 
have triumphed, and he might have secured there, 
under different circumstances, a fair share of happi- 
ness, which lies in ourselves and not in the localities 
in which we live. But in making his calculation he 
had always assumed that it would be easy to get on 
with the inhabitants of Fuzby; and here iay his mis- 
take. 

The Vicar of Fuzby, a non-resident pluralist, only 
appeared at rare intervals to receive the adoration 
which his flock never refused to any one who was 
wealthy. His curate, having a very slender income, 
came in for no share at all of this respect. On the con- 
trary, the whole population assumed a right to pat- 
ronize him, to interfere with him, to annoy and to 
thwart him. There was at Fuzby one squire — a rich 
farmer, coarse, ignorant, and brutal. This 
man being the richest person in the 
parish, generally carried everything 
in his own way, and among other at- 
tempts to imitate the absurdities of 
his superiors, had ordered the 
sexton never to cease ringing the 
church bell, however late, un- 
til he and his family had taken 
their seats. A very few Sun- 
days after Mr. Kenrick’s ar- 
rival the bell was still ringing 
eight minutes after the time 
for morning service, and send- 
ing to desire the sexton to 
leave off, he received the mes- 
sage that — 

“ Mr. Ilugginson hadn’t 
r ... * • .j come yet.” 

/ • 1 ' “I will not have the con- 

gregation kept waiting for 
Mr. Ilugginson or any one else,” said the curate. 

“ O zurr, the zervus liain’t begun afore Muster Hug- 
ginson has come in this ten year.” 

44 Then the sooner Mr. 



Hugginson 


is made to 


198 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


understand that the hours of service are not to be 
altered at his convenience the better. Let the bell 
cease immediately.” 

But the sexton, a dogged, bovine, bullet-headed 
laborer, took no notice whatever of this injunction, and 
although Mr. Kenrick went into the reading-desk, 
continued lustily to ring the bell until the whole 
Hugginson family, furious that their dignity should 
thus be insulted, sailed into church at the beginning 
of the psalms. 

Next morning Mr. Kenrick turned the sexton out of 
his place, and received a most wrathful visit from Mr. 
Hugginson, who, after pouring on him a torrent of the 
most disgusting abuse, got scarlet in the forehead, 
shook his stick in Mr. Kenrick’s face, flung his poverty 
in his teeth, and left the cottage, vowing eternal 
vengeance. 

With him went all the Fuzby population. It would 
be long to tell the various little causes which led to 
Mr. Kenrick’s unpopularity among them. Every clergy- 
man similarly circumstanced may conjecture these for 
himself; they resolved themselves mainly into the fact 
that Mr. Kenrick was abler, wiser, purer, better, more 
Christian, than they. His thoughts were not theirs, 
nor his ways their ways. 

He had a daily beauty in his life 
That made them ugly. 

And so, to pass briefly and lightly over an unpleasant 
subject, Fuzby was brimming over with the concen- 
trated meanness of petty malignant natures, united in 
the one sole object of snubbing and worrying the un- 
happy curate. To live among them was like living in 
a cloud of poisonous flies. If Dante had known Fuzby- 
le-Mud, he could have found for a really generous and 
noble spirit no more detestable or unendurable inferno 
than this muddy English village. 

The chief characteristic of Fuzby was a pestilential 
spirit of gossip. There was no lying scandal, there 
was no malicious whisper, that did not thrive with rank 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


199 


luxuriance in that mean atmosphere, which, at the same 
time, starved up every great and high-minded wish. 
There was no circumstance so minute that calumny 
could not insert into it a venomous claw. Mr. Ken- 
rick was one of the most exemplary, generous, and 
pure-minded of men ; his only fault was quickness of 
temper. His noble character, his conciliatory manners, 
his cultivated mind, his Christian forbearance, were 
all in vain. lie was poor, and he could not be a 
toady: these were two unpardonable sins; and he, a 
true man, moved like an angel among a set of inferior 
beings. For a time he struggled on. He tried not to 
mind the lies they told of him. What was it to him, 
for instance, if they took advantage of his hasty 
language to declare that he was in the constant habit 
of swearing, when he knew that even from boyhood 
no oath had ever crossed his lips? What was it to 
him that these uneducated boors, in their feeble ignor- 
ance, tried constantly to entrap him into something 
which they called unorthodox, and to twist his words 
into the semblance of fancied heresy? It was more 
painful to him than they opposed and vilified every 
one whom he helped, and whose interests, in pity, 
he endeavored to forward. But still he bore on, 
he struggled on, till the denouement came. It is not 
worth while entering into the various schemes in- 
vented for his annoyance, but at last an unfortunate, 
although purely accidental, discrepancy was detected 
in the accounts of one of the parish charities which 
Mr. Kenrick officially managed. Mr. Hugginson seized 
his long-looked-for opportunity; he went round the 
parish, and got a large number of his creatures among 
the congregation to affirm by their signatures that 
Mr. Kenrick had behaved dishonestly. This memorial 
he sent to the 'bishop, and disseminated among all 
the clergy with malicious assiduity. At the next cler- 
ical meeting Mr. Kenrick found himself most coldly 
received. Compelled in self-defence to take legal pro- 
ceedings against the squire, he found himself involved 
in heavy expenses. He won his cause, and his charac- 
ter was cleared; but the jury, attending only to the 


200 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


technicalities of the case, and conceiving that there 
was enough prima facie evidence to justify Mr. Hug- 
ginson’s proceedings, left each side to pay their own 
costs. These costs swallowed up the whole of the 
poor curate’s private resources, and also involved him 
in debt. The agony, the suspense, the shame, the 
cruel sense of oppression and injustice, bore with a 
crushing weight on his weakened health. He could 
not tolerate that the merest breath of suspicion, how- 
ever false, should pass over his fair and honorable 
name. He pined away under the atrocious calumny; 
it poisoned for him the very life-springs of happiness, 
and destroyed his peace of mind forever. This young 
man, in the flower of youth — a man who might have 
been a leader and teacher of men — a man of gracious 
presence and high power — died of a broken heart. 
He died of a broken heart, and all Fuzby built his con- 
spicuous tomb, and shed crocodile tears over his pious 
memory. Truly, as some one has said, very black 
stains lie here and there athwart the white conven- 
tionalities of common life ! 

This had happened when our little Kenrick was 
eight years old ; he never forgot the spectacle of his 
poor father’s heart-breaking misery during the last 
year of his life. He never forgot how, during that 
year, sorrow and anxiety had aged his father’s face, 
and silvered his hair, young as he was, with premature 
white, and so quenched his spirits, that often he would 
take his little boy on his knee, and look upon him so 
long in silence, that the child cried at the intensity 
of that long, mournful, hopeless gaze, and at the tears 
which he saw slowly coursing each other down his 
father’s care-worn and furrowed cheeks. Ever since 
then the boy had walked among the Fuzby people with 
open scorn and defiance, as among tho£e whose slanders 
had done to death the father whom he so proudly 
loved. In spite of his mother’s wishes, he would not 
stoop to pay them even the semblance of courtesy. 
No wonder that he hated Fuzby with a perfect hatred, 
and that his home there was a miserable home. 

Yet if any one could have made happy a home 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


201 


in such a place, it would have been Mrs. Kenrick. 
Never, I think, did a purer, a fairer, a sweeter soul 
live on earth, or one more like the angels of heaven. 
The winning grace of her manners, the simple sweet- 
ness of her address, the pathetic beauty and sadness 
of her face, would have won for her, and had won for 
her, in any other place but Fuzby, the love and admira- 
tion which were her due. 

She had a mind that envy could not but call fair. 

But at Fuzby, from her dominant faction of Hugginson, 
and the small vulgar-minded sets who always tried to 
brow-beat those who were poor, particularly if their 
birth and breeding were gentle, she found nothing but 
insulting coldness, or still more insulting patronage. 
When first she heard the marriage-bells clang out 
from the old church-tower of her home, and had 
walked by the side of her young husband, a glad and 
lovely bride, she had looked forward to many happy 
years. With him , at any rate, it seemed that no 
place could be very miserable. Poor lady ! her life 
had been one long martyrdom, all the more hard to bear 
because it was made up for the most part of small an- 
noyances, petty mortifications, little recurring incessant 
bitternesses. And now, during the seven years of her 
widowhood, she had gained a calmer and serener 
atmosphere, in which she was raised above the 
possibility of humiliation from the dwarfed natures 
and malicious hearts in the midst of which she lived. 
They could hurt her feelings, they could embitter her 
days no longer. To the hopes and pleasures of earth 
she had bidden farewell. Still young, still beautiful, 
she had reached the full maturity of Christian life, 
meekly bearing the load of scorn, and disappointment, 
and poverty, looking only for that rest which remaineth 
to the people of God. In her lonely home, with no 
friend at Fuzby to whom she could turn for counsel 
or for consolation, shut up with the sorrows of her own 
lonely heart, she often mused at the slight sources, 
the little sins of others, from which her misery had 


202 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


sprung ; she marvelled at the mystery that man should 
be to man “ the sorest, surest ill.” Truly, it is a strange 
thought ! Oh ! it is pitiable that, as though death, and 
want, and sin were not enough, we too must add to 
the sum of human miseries by despising, by neglect- 
ing, by injuring others. We wound by our harsh 
words, we dishonor by our coarse judgments, we 
grieve by our untender pride, the souls for whom 
Christ died ; and we wound most deeply, and grieve 
most irreparably, the noblest and the best. 

The one tie that bound her to earth was her orphan 
son — her hope, her pride ; all her affections were 
centered in that beautiful boy. Now, if I were writing 
a romance, I should of course represent that yearning 
mother’s affection as reciprocated with all the warmth 
and passion of the boy’s heart. But it was not so. 
Harry Kenrick did indeed love his mother ; he would 
have borne anything rather than see her suffer any 
great pain ; but his manners were too often cold, his 
conduct wilful or thoughtless. He did not love her — 
perhaps no child can love his parents — with all the 
abandon and intensity wherewith she loved him. The 
fact is, a blight lay upon Kenrick whenever he was 
at home — the Fuzby blight he called it. He hated 
the place so much, he hated the people in it so much, 
he felt the annoyances of their situation with so keen 
and fretful a sensibility, that at Fuzby, even though 
with his mother, he was never happy. Even her so- 
ciety could not make up to him for the detestation 
with which he not unnaturally regarded the village 
and its inhabitants. At school he was bright, warm- 
hearted, and full of life ; at home he seemed to draw 
himself into a shell of reserve and coldness; and it was 
a deep unspoken trial to that gentle mother’s heart 
that she could not make home happy to the boy whom 
she so fondly loved, and that even to her he seemed 
indifferent; for his manners — since he had been to 
school and learned how very differently other boys 
were circumstanced, and what untold pleasures cen- 
tred for them in that word “ home ” — were to her al- 
ways shy and silent, appeared sometimes almost harsh. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


203 


I wish I could represent it otherwise ; but things 
are not often truly represented in books; and is not 
this a very common, as well as a very tragic case? 
Not even in her son could Mrs. Kenrick look for happi- 
ness ; even his society brought with it trials almost as 
hard to bear as those which his absence caused. Yet 
no mother could have brought up her child more 
wisely, more tenderly, with more undivided and de- 
voted care. Harry’s heart was true, could she have 
looked into it ; but at Fuzby a cold, repellent manner 
fell on him like a mildew. And Mrs. Kenrick wept in 
silence, as she thought — though it was not true — that 
even her own son did not love her, or at least did not 
love her as she had hoped he would. It was the last 
bitter drop in that overflowing cup which it had 
pleased God that she should be called upon to drink. 

The boys drove up to the door of the little cottage. 
It stood in a garden, but as the garden was overlooked 
by Fuzbeians on all sides, it offered few attractions, 
and was otherwise very small and plain. They were 
greeted by Mrs. Ken rick’s soft and pleasant voice. 

“ Well, dear Harry, I am delighted that you have 
brought back your friend.” 

Harry’s mind was preoccupied with the poverty- 
stricken aspect which he thought the hous'e must pre- 
sent to his friend, and he did not answer her, but said 
to Walter — 

“ Well, Walter, here is the hut we inhabit. We 
have only one girl as a servant. I’ll carry up the box. 
I do pretty nearly everything but clean the shoes.” 

Mrs. Kenrick’s eyes filled with sad tears at the bitter 
words; but she checked them to greet Walter, who 
advanced and shook her by the hand so cordially, and 
with a manner so respectfully affectionate, that he won 
her heart at once. 

“ Harry has not yet learned,” she said playfully, 
“ that poverty is not a thing to be ashamed of ; but I 
am sure, Walter — forgive my using the name which 
my boy has made so familiar to me — that you will not 
mind any little inconveniences during your short stay 
with us.” 


204 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“Oh no, Mrs. Kenrick,” said Walter; “to be with 
you and him will be the greatest possible enjoyment.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t flap our poverty in every 
one’s face, mother,” said Kenrick, almost angrily, when 
Walter had barely left the room. 

“O Harry, Harry,” said Mrs. Kenrick, speaking 
sadly, “ you surely forget, dear boy, that it is your 
mother to whom you are speaking. And was it I who 
mentioned our poverty first? O Harry, when will you 
learn to be contented with the dispensations of God ? 
Believe me, dearest, we might make our poverty as 
happy as any wealth, if we would but have eyes to see 
the blessings it involves.” 

The boy turned away impatiently, and as he ran up- 
stairs to rejoin his friend, the lady sat down with a 
deep sigh to her work. It was long ere Kenrick learnt 
how much his conduct was to blame ; but long after, 
when his mother was dead, he was reminded painfully 
of this scene, when he accidentally found in her 
handwriting this extract from one of her favorite 
authors : — 

“ It has been reserved for this age to perceive the 
blessedness of another kind of poverty ; not voluntary 
nor proud, but accepted and submissive; not clear- 
sighted nor triumphant, but subdued and patient; 
partly patient in tenderness — of God’s will; partly 
patient in blindness — of man’s oppression; too labori- 
ous to be thoughtful, too innocent to be conscious ; 
too much experienced in sorrow to be hopeful — waiting 
in its peaceful darkness for the unconceived dawn ; 
yet not without its sweet, complete, untainted happi- 
ness, like intermittent notes of birds before the day- 
break, or the first gleams of heaven’s amber on the 
eastern gray. Such poverty as this it has been re- 
served for this age of ours to honor while it afflicted ; 
it is reserved for the age to come to honor it and to 
spare.” 



FUZBY-LE-MUD STATION. 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 

What, man ! I know them, yea, 

And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple, — 
Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, 

That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander. 

Much Ado about Nothing , Act v. Sc. 1. 

Walter could not help hearing a part of this conver- 
sation, and he was pained and surprised that Kenrick, 
whom he had regarded as so fine a character, should 
show his worst side at home, and should speak and act 
thus unkindly to one whom he was so deeply bound to 
love and reverence. And he was even more surprised 
when he went downstairs again and looked on the 
calm face of his friend’s mother, so lovely, so gentle, 
so resigned, and felt the charm of manners which, in 
their natural grace and sweetness, might have shed 
lustre on a court. All that he could himself do was 
to show by his own manner to Mrs. Kenrick the affec- 
tion and respect with which he regarded her. When 
he hinted to Kenrick, as delicately and distantly as he 
could, that he thought his manner to his mother rather 

205 


206 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


brusque, Kenrick reddened rather angrily, but only 
replied, “ Ah, it’s all very well for you to talk ; but you 
don’t live at Fuzby.” 

“Yet I’ve enjoyed my visit very much, Ken; you 
can’t think how much I love your mother.” 

“ Thank you, Walter, for saying so. But how would 
you like to live always at such a place?” 

“ If I did I should do my best to make it happy.” 

“Make it happy /” said Kenrick; and as he turned 
away he muttered, something about making a silk 
purse out of a sow’s ear. Soon after he told Walter 
some of those circumstances about his father’s life 
which we have recently related. 

When the three days were over the boys started for 
St. Winifred’s. They drove to the station in the pony- 
chaise before described, accompanied, against Kenrick’s 
will, by his mother. She bore up bravely as she bade 
them good-bye, knowing the undemonstrative character 
of boys, and seeing that they were both in the merriest 
mood. She knew, too, that their gayety was natural : 
the world lay before them , bright and seductive as yet, 
with no shadow across its light; nor was she all in all 
to Harry as he was to her. He had other hopes, and 
another home, and other ties ; and remembering this 
she tried not to grieve that he should leave her with 
so light a heart. But as she turned away from the 
platform when the train had started, taking with it all 
that she held dearest in the world, and as she walked 
back to the lonely home which had nothing but faith 
— for there was not even hope — to brighten it, the 
quiet tears flowed fast over the fair face beneath her 
veil. Yet as she crossed over her lonely threshold her 
thoughts were not even then for herself, but they 
carried her on the wings of prayer to the throne of 
mercy for the beloved boy from whom she was again 
to be separated for nearly five long months. 

The widowed mother wept ; but the boy’s spirits 
rose as he drew closer to the hills and to the sea, which 
told him that St. Winifred’s was near. He talked 
happily with Walter about the coming half — eager 
with ambition, with hope, with high spirits, and fine 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


207 


resolutions. lie clapped his hands with pleasure 
when they reached the top of Bardlyn Hill and caught 
sight of the school buildings. 

Having had a long distance to travel they were 
among the late arrivals, and at the great gate stood 
Henderson and Power ready to greet them and the 
other boys who came with them in the same coach. 
Among these were Eden and Bliss. 

“ Ah, Eden,” said Henderson, “ Pve been writing a 
poem about you — 

“ I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp of diminutive size, 

Inspect my antennae and look at my eyes ; 

Quick, quick, feel me quick, for cannot you see 
I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp, to be eaten with tea ! ” 

“ And who’s this ? — why,” he said, clasping his hands 
and throwing up his eyes in mock rapture, “ this in- 
deed is Bliss ! ” 

“ I’ll lick you, Flip,” said Bliss, only in a more good- 
humored tone than usual, as he hit at him. 

“ I think I’ve heard that observation before,” said 
Henderson, dodging away. “Ah, Walter, how do you 
do, my dear old fellow ? I hope you’re sitting on the 
throne of health, and reclining under the canopy of a 
well-organized hrain.” 

“More than you are, Flip,” said Walter, laughing. 
“You seem madder than ever.” 

“That he is,” said Power; “since his return he’s 
made on an average fifteen thousand bad puns. You 
ought to be grateful though, for he and I have got 
some coffee going for you in my study. Come along ; 
the Familiar will see that your luggage is all right.” 

“Yes; and I shall make bold to bring in a shrimp 
to tea,” said Henderson, seizing hold of Eden. 

“All right. I meant to ask you, Eden,” said Power, 
shaking the little boy by the hand ; “ have you enjoyed 
the holidays?” 

“Hot very much,” said Eden. 

“You’re not looking as bright as I should like,” 
said Power; “never mind: if you didn’t enjoy the 
holidays you must enjoy the half.” 


208 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ That I shall. I hope, Walter, you’ll be in the same 
dormitory still. What shall I do if you’re not ? ” 

“ Oh, how’s that to be, Flip ?” asked Walter ; “ you 
said you’d try to get some of us put together in one 
dormitory. That would be awfully jolly. I don’t 
want to leave you, Eden, and would like you to be 
moved too ; but I can’t bear Harpour and that lot.” 

“ I’ve partly managed it and partly failed,” said Hen- 
derson. “ You and the shrimp still stay with the rest 
of the set in No. 10, but as there was a vacant bed I 
got myself put there too.” 

“Hurrah!” said Walter and Eden both at once; 
“ that’s capital.” 

“ Let me see,” said Walter; “there are Jones and 
Harpour — brutes certainly both of them ; and Cradock 
—well, he’s rather a bargee, but he’s not altogether 
bad; and Anthony, and Franklin, who are both far 
jollier than they used to be ; indeed I like old Franklin 
very much ; so with you and Eden we shall get on 
famously.” 

The first few days of term passed very pleasantly. 
The masters met the boys in the kindliest spirit, and 
the boys, fresh from home and with the sweet influences 
of home still playing over them, did not begin at once 
to re weave the ravelled threads of evil school tradition. 
They were all on good terms with each other and with 
themselves, full of good resolutions, cheerful, and 
happy. 

All our boys had got their removes. Walter had 
won a double remove, and was now under his friend 
Mr. Percival. Kenrick was in the second fifth, and 
Power, young as he was, had now attained the upper 
fifth, which stands next to the dignity of the monitors 
and the sixth. 

The first Sunday of term was a glorious day, and the 
boys, according to their custom, scattered themselves 
in various groups in the grounds about St. Winifred’s 
School. The favorite place of resort was a broad green 
field at the back of the buildings, shaded by noble 
trees, and half encircled by a bend of the river. Here, 
on a fine Sunday, between dinner and afternoon school, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


209 


you were sure to find the great majority of the boys 
walking arm in arm by twos and threes, or sitting with 
books on the willow trunks that overhung the stream, 
or stretched out at full length upon the grass, and 
lazily learning their Scripture repetition. 

It was a sweet spot and a pleasant time; but Walter 
generally preferred his beloved sea-shore; and on this 
afternoon lie was sitting there talking to Power, while 
Eden, perched on the top of a piece of rock close by, 
kept murmuring to himself his afternoon lesson. The 
conversation of the two boys turned chiefly on the 
holidays which were just over, and Power was asking 
Walter about his visit to Kenrick’s house. 

“ How did you enjoy the visit, Walter?” 

“ Very much for some things. Mrs. Kenrick is the 
sweetest lady you ever saw.” 

“But Ken is always abusing Fuzby — isn’t that the 
name?” 

“Yes; it isn’t a particularly jolly place, certainly, 
but he doesn’t make the best of it ; he makes up his 
mind to detest it.” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. They didn’t treat his father 
well. His father was curate of the place.” 

“ As far as I’ve seen, Fuzby isn’t singular in that 
respect. It’s no easy thing in most places for a poor 
clergyman to keep on good terms with his people.” 

“Yes; but Ken’s father does seem to have been 
abominably treated.” And Walter proceeded to tell 
Power the parts of Mr. Kenrick’s history which Ken- 
rick had told him. 

When he had finished the story he observed that 
Eden had shut up his book and was listening intently. 

“Hallo, Arty,” said Walter, “I didn’t mean you to 
hear.” 

“ Didn’t you ? I’m so sorry. I really didn,’t know 
you meant to be talking secrets, for you weren’t talking 
particularly low.” 

“ The noise of the waves prevents that. But never 
mind; I don’t suppose it’s any secret. Ken never told 
me not to mention it. Only of course you mustn’t tell 

14 


210 


ST. WINIFRED’S. 


any one, you know, as it clearly isn’t a thing to be 
talked about.” 

“ No,” said Eden ; “ I won’t mention it, of course. 
So other people have unhappy homes as well as me,” 
he added in a low tone. 

“What, isn’t your home happy, Arty?” asked 
Power. 

Eden shook his head. “ It used to be, but this holi- 
days my mother married again. She married Colonel 
Braemar — and I cartt bear him.” The words were said 
so energetically as to leave no doubt that he had some 
grounds for the dislike ; but Power said — 

“ Hush, Arty, you must try to like him. Are you 
sure you know your Rep. perfectly ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then let’s take a turn till the bell rings.” 

While this conversation was going on by the shore, 
a very different scene was being enacted in the Croft, 
as the field was called which I above described. 

It happened that Jones, and one of his set, named 
Mackworth, were walking up and down the Croft in one 
direction, while Ken rick and Whalley, one of his friends, 
were pacing up and down the same avenue in the op- 
posite direction, so that the four boys passed each other 
every five minutes. The first time they met, Kenrick 
could not help noticing that Jones and Mackworth 
nudged each other derisively as he passed and looked 
at him with a glance unmistakably impudent. This 
rather surprised him, though he was on bad terms 
with them both. Kenrick had not forgotten how 
grossly Jones had bullied him when he was a new boy, 
and before he had risen out of the sphere in which 
Jones could dare to bully him with impunity. He was 
now so high in the school as to be well aware that 
Jones would be nearly as much afraid to touch him as 
he always was to annoy any one of his own size and 
strength ; and Kenrick had never hesitated to show 
Jones the quiet but quite measureless contempt which 
he felt for his malice and meanness. Mackworth was 
a bully of another stamp ; he was rather a clever fel- 
low, set himself up for an aristocrat on the strength of 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


211 


being second cousin to a baronet, studied Debrett's Peer- 
age, dressed as faultlessly as Tracy himself, and af- 
fected at all times a studious politeness of manner. 
He had been a good deal abroad, and as he constantly 
adopted the airs and the graces of a fashionable per- 
son, the boys had felicitously named him French Var- 
nish. But Mackworth was a dangerous enemy, for he 
had one of the most biting tongues in the whole school, 
and there were few things which he enjoyed more than 
making a young boy wince under his cutting words. 
When Kenrick came to school, his wardrobe, the work 
of Fuzbeian artists, was not only well-worn — for his 
mother was too poor to give him new clothes — but also 
of a somewhat odd cut ; and accordingly the very first 
words Mackworth had ever addressed to Kenrick 
were — 

“ You new fellow, what’s your father?” 

“ My father is dead,” said Kenrick, in a low tone. 

“ Then what was he ? ” 

“ He was curate of Fuzby.” 

“ Curate was he ? a slashing trade that,” was the 
brutal reply. “ Curate of Fuzby ? are you sure it isn’t 
Fusty?” 

Kenrick looked at him with a strange glowingof the 
eyes, which, so far from disconcerting Mackworth, only 
made him chuckle at the success of his taunt. He de- 
termined to exercise the lancet of his tongue again, 
and let fresh blood if possible. 

“ Well, glare-eyes ! so you didn’t like my remark ?” 

Kenrick made no answer, and Mackworth con- 
tinued — 

“ What charity boy has left you his cast-off clothes? 
May I ask if your jacket was intended to serve also as 
a looking-glass ? and is it the custom in your part of 
the country not to wear breeches below the knees?” 

There was a corrosive malice in this speech so in- 
tense that Kenrick never saw Mackworth without re- 
calling the shame and anguish it had caused. Fresh 
from home, full of quick sensibility, feeling ridicule 
with great keenness, Kenrick was too much pained by 
these words even for anger. He had hung his head 


212 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


* and slunk away. For days after, until at his most 
earnest entreaty, his mother had incurred much priva- 
tion to afford him a new and better suit, he hardly 
dared to lift up his face. lie had fancied himself a 
mark for ridicule, and the sense of shabbiness and 
poverty had gone far to crush his spirit. After a time 
he recovered, but never since that day had he deigned 
to speak to Mackworth a single word. 

lie was surprised, therefore, at the obtrusive imper- 
tinence of these two fellows, and when next he passed 
them he surveyed them from head to foot with a 
haughty and indignant stare. The moment after he 
heard them burst into a laugh, and begin talking very 
loud. 

“ It was the rummiest vehicle you ever saw,” he 
heard Jones say ; “a cart, I assure you — nothing more 
or less, and drawn by the very scraggiest scarecrow of 
a blind horse . . .” 

He caught no more as the distance between them 
increased, but he heard Jones bubbling over with a 
stupid giggle at some remark of Mackworth’s about 
glare-eyes being drawn by a blind horse. 

“ How rude those fellows are, Ken,” said Whalley, 
“ what do they mean by it?” 

“Dogs ! ” said Ken rick, stamping angrily, while his 
face was scarlet with rage. 

“ If they’re trying to annoy you, Ken,” said Whalley 
who was a very gentle, popular boy, “ don’t give them 
the triumph of seeing that they succeed. They’re only 
Varnish and White-feather ; — we all know what they* re 
like.” 

“ Dogs ! ” said Ken rick again ; “ I should like to pitch 
into them.” 

“ Let’s leave them, and go and sit by the river, Ken.” 

“ No, Whalley. I’m sure they mean to insult me, and 
I want to hear how, and why.” 

There was no difficulty in doing this, for Jones and 
his ally were again approaching, and Jones was talking 
purposely loud. 

“ I never could bear the fellow; gives himself such 
airs.” 


ST. WINIFRED’S. 


213 



u Yes ; only fancy going to meet his friends in a hay- 
Wagon ! what a start ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” 

“ It’s such impudence in a low fellow like that . . . ” 
and here Kenrick lost some words, for, as they passed 
Jones lowered his voice; but he heard, only too plainly 
the words “ father ” and “ dishonest parson ; ” — the rest 
he could supply with fatal facility. 

For half an instant he stood paralyzed, his eyes burn- 
ing with fury, but his face pale as ashes. The next 
second he sprang upon Jones, seized with both hands 
the collar of his coat, shook him, flung him violently 
to the ground, and kicked his hat, which had fallen off 
in the struggle, straight into the river. 

“What the deuce do you mean by that?” asked 
Jones, picking himself up. “ I’ll just give you — fifth 
form or no fifth form — the best licking you ever had.” 

“ You’ll just not presume 
to lay upon him the tip of 
your fingers,” said Whalley, 
who was quite as 
big as Jones, and 
was very fond of 
Kenrick. 

“ Not for flinging 
me down, and kick- 
ing my hat into the 
water ? ” 

“No, Jones,” said 
Whalley quietly. 

“ I don’t know what 
you were talk- 
ing about, but 
you clearly 
meant to insult 
him, from your 
manner.” 

“What’s the 
row ? what’s 
up ? ” said a 
number of boys, 
who began to throng round. 


214 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ Only a plebeian sputter of rage from our well-bred 
friend there,” said Mackworth, pointing contemptuously 
at Kenrick, who stood with dilated nostrils, still heav- 
ing with rage. 

“ But what about ? ” 

“ Heaven only knows ; — apropos of just nothing.” 

“You’re a liar,” said Kenrick impetuously. “Yon 
know that you told lies and insulted me ; and if you say 
it again, I’ll do the same again.” 

“ Only try ! ” said Jones, in a surly tone. 

“ Insulted you ? ” said Mackworth, in bland accents. 
“We were talking about a dishonest parson, as far as 
I remember. Pray are you a dishonest parson ? ” 

“You’d better take care,” said Kenrick, with fierce 
energy. 

“Take care of what? We didn’t ask you to listen 
to our conversation ; listeners hear no ” 

“ Bosh ! ” interposed Whalley ; “ you know you were 
talking at the top of your voices, and we couldn’t help 
hearing you.” 

“ And what then ? Mayn’t we talk as loud as we 
like? — I assure you, on my word of honor,” he said, 
turning to the group then, “we didn’t even mention 
Kenrick’s name. We were merely talking about a 
certain dishonest parson who rode in hay-carts, when 
the fellow sprang on Jones like a tiger-cat. I’m sure, 
if he’s any objection to our talking of such un- 
pleasant people we won’t do so in his hearing,” said 
Mackworth, in an excess of venomous politeness. 

“French Varnish,” said Whalley, with honest con- 
tempt, moved beyond his wont with indignation, 
though he did not understand the cause of Kenrick’s 
anger. “ I wonder why Kenrick should even conde- 
scend to notice what such fellows as you and Jones 
say. — Come along, Ken ; you know what we all think 
about those two and, putting his arm in Kenrick’s 
he almost dragged him from the scene, while Jones 
and Mackworth (conscious that there was not a single 
other boy who would not condemn their conduct as 
infamous when they understood it) were not sorry to 
move off in another direction. 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


215 


But when Whalley had taken Kenrick to a quiet 
place by the river-side, and asked him “what had 
made him so furious?” he returned no answer, only 
hiding his face in his hands. He had indeed been 
cruelly insulted, wounded in his tenderest sensibili- 
ties; he felt that his best affections had been wantonly 
and violently lacerated. It made him more miserable 
than he had ever felt before, and he could not tolerate 
the wretched thought that his father’s sad history, 
probably in some distorted form, had been, by some 
means or other, bruited about among unsympathizing 
hearers, and made the common property of the school. 
He knew well indeed the natural delicacy of feeling 
which would prevent any other boy, except Jones or 
Mackworth, from ever alluding to it even in the re- 
motest way. But that they should know at all the 
shameful charge which had broken his father’s heart, 
and brought temporary suspicion and dishonor on his 
name, was gall and wormwood to him. 

Yet , by what possible means could this have become 
known to them? Kenrick knew of one way only. He 
thought over what Jones had said. “ A cart and blind 

horse ah ! I see ; there is only one person who could 

have told him about that. So, Walter Evson , you 
amuse yourself and Jones by making fun of our being 
poor, and by ridiculing what you saw in our house ; a 
very good laugh you’ve all had over it in the dormitory, 
I’ve no doubt.” 

Kenrick did not know that Jones had seen them 
from the window of the railway carriage, and that as 
he had been visiting an aunt at no great distance, he 
had heard there the particulars of Mr. Kenrick’s his- 
tory. He clutched angrily at the conclusion that Wal- 
ter had betrayed him and turned him into derision. 
Naturally passionate, growing up during the wilful 
years of opening boyhood without a father’s wise con- 
trol, he did not stop to inquire, but leapt at once to a 
false and obstinate inference. “ It must be so ; it 
clearly is so,” he thought; “yet I could not have be- 
lieved it of him ; ” and he burst into a flood of bitter 
and angry tears. 


216 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


The fact was that Kenrick, though he would hardly 
have admitted it even to himself, was in a particularly 
ready mood to take offence. He had observed that 
Walter disapproved of his manner towards his mother, 
and his sensitive pride had already been ruffled by the 
fact that Walter had exercised the moral coinage of 
pointing out, though in the most delicate and modest 
way, the brusquerie which he reprobated. At the 
time he had said little, but in reality this had made 
him very very angry ; and the more so because he was 
jealous enough to fancy that he now stood second only, 
or even third, in Walter’s estimation, and that Power 
and Henderson had deposed him from the place which 
he once held as his chief friend ; and that Walter had 
also usurped his old place in their affections. This 
displeased him greatly, for he was not one who could 
contentedly take the second place. He could not have 
had a more excellent companion than the manly and 
upright Whalley ; but in his close intimacy with him 
he had rather hoped to pique Walter, and show him 
that his society was not indispensable to his happiness. 
But Walter’s open and generous mind was quite inca- 
pable of understanding this unworthy motive, and 
with feelings far better trained than those of Ken- 
rick, he never felt the slightest qualm of this small 
jealousy. 

“ Never mind, my dear fellow,” said Whalley, pat- 
ting him on the back ; “ why should you care so much 
because two such fellows as White-feather and Varnish 
try to be impudent. I shouldn’t care the snap of a 
finger for anything they could say.” 

“It isn’t that, Whalley, it isn’t that,” said Kenrick 
proudly, drying his tears. “ But how did those fellows 
know the things they were hinting at? Onty one per- 
son ever heard them, and he must have betrayed them 
to laugh at me behind my back. It’s that that makes 
me miserable.” 

“But whom do you mean ? ” 

“The excellent Evson,” said Kenrick bitterly. 
“And mark me, Whalley, I’ll never speak to him 
again.” 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 217 

“FJvson?” said Whalley; “I don’t believe he’s at 
all the fellow to do it. Are you certain ?” 

“Quite. No one else could know the things.” 

“ But surely you’ll ask him first?” 

“It’s no use,” answered .Ken rick gloomily ; “but I 
will , in order that he may understand that I have found 
him out.” 


218 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. 

A BROKEN FRIENDSHIP. 

Everard, Everard, which was the truest, 

God in the future, and Time will show ; 

Ne’er will I stoop to defence or excuses — 

If you despise me — be it so ! 

But, my Everard, still (for I love you) 

This to the end my prayer shall be — 

Ne’er may you be so sternly treated, 

Never be judged as you judge me. — F. 

Kenrick dicl not happen to meet Walter during the 
remainder of that Sunday, because Walter was chiefly 
sitting in Mr. Percival’s room, but the next day, still 
nursing the smouldering fire of his anger, he deter- 
mined to get the first opportunity he could of meeting 
him, in order that he might tax him with his supposed 
false friendship and breach of confidence. 

Accordingly, when school was over next day, he 
went with Whalley to look for him in the playground. 
Walter was walking with Henderson, never dreaming 
that anything unpleasant was likely to happen. Hen- 
derson was the first to catch sight of them, and as he 
never saw Whalley without chaffing him in some 
ridiculous way or other — for Whalley’s charming good- 
humor made him a capital subject for a joke — he at 
once began, as might have been expected, to sing — 

“ O Whalley, Whalley up the bank, 

And Whalley, Whalley down the brae, 

And Whalley, Whalley by yon burnside ” 

whereupon his song was interrupted by Whalley’s 
givingchase to him, which did not end till he had been 
led a dance half round the school buildings, while the 
ground was left clear for Kenrick’s expostulations. 

Walter came up to him as cordially as usual, but 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


219 



stopped short in surprise when he caught the scornful 
lowering expression of his friend’s face ; but as Kenrick 
did not speak at once, he took him by the hand, and 
said, “Why, Ken, what’s the matter?” 

Kenrick very coldly withdrew his hand. 

“Evson, 1 came to ask you if — whether — if you’ve 
been telling to any of the fellows all about me; — all I 
told you about my father?” 

As Walter instantly remembered that he had men- 
tioned the story to Power, he could not at once say 
“No,” but was about to explain. 

“ Telling any of the fellows all about you and your 

father ? ” he repeated ; “ I didn’t know ” 

“ Please, I don’t want any excuses. If you haven’t 
it’s easy to say No ; if you have , 
I only want you to say Yes.” 
“But you never told me that I 

wasn’t to ” 

“Yes or no? ’’said 
Kenrick, with an im- 
patient gesture. 

“Well, I suppose 
I must say Yes, 
then ; but hear me 
explain. I only 

mentioned it to ” 

“ That’s enough, 
thank you. I don’t 
want to hear any 
more. I don’t want 
to know whom you 
mentioned it to ; ” 
and Kenrick turned 
short on his heel, 
and began to walk 
off. 

“ But hear me, Ken,” Said Walter eagerly, walking 
after him, and laying his hand on his shoulder. 

“ My name’s Kenrick,” said he, shaking off Walter’s 
hand. “You may apologize if you like ; but even then 
I shan’t speak to you again.” 


220 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“I have nothing to apologize for. I only told ” 

“ I tell you I don’t care whom you ‘only ’ told. It’s 
1 only ’ all over the school. And it’s not the 4 only ’ 
time you’ve behaved dishonorably.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” said Walter, who was 
rapidly gettinginto as great a passion as Kenrick. 

“ Betraying confidence is almost as bad as breaking 

open desks, and burning ” Such a taunt, coming 

from Kenrick, was base and cruel, and he knew it to be so. 

“Thank you for the allusion,” said Walter ; “I de- 
serve it, I own, but I’m surprised, Kenrick, that you , 
of all others, should make it. That', I admit, was an 
act of sin and strange folly for which I must always 
feel humiliated, and implore to be forgiven. And every 
generous person has long ago forgiven me and forgot- 
ten it. But in this case, if you weren’t in such a silly 
rage I could show you that I’ve done nothing wrong. 
Only I know you wouldn’t listen now, and I shan’t 
condescend ” 

“ Condescend ! I like that,” said Kenrick, inter- 
rupting him with a scornful laugh, which made 
Walter’s blood tingle. “ You condescend to me, for- 
sooth.” Higher words might have ensued, but at this 
moment Henderson, still pursued by Whalley, came 
running up, and seeing that something had gone wrong, 
he said to Kenrick — 

“ Hallo, Damon ! what has Pythias been saying to 
you ? ” 

Kenrick vouchsafed no answer, but turning his back 
on them, went off abruptly. 

“ He’s very angry with you, Evson,” said Whalley, 
“ because he thinks you’ve been telling Jones and that 
lot his family secrets.” 

“I’ve done nothing whatever of the kind,” said 
Walter indignantly. “ I admit that I did thought- 
lessly mention it to Power ; and one other overheard 
me. It never occurred to me for a moment that Ken- 
rick would mind. You know I wouldn’t dream of 
speaking about it ill-naturedly, and if that fellow 
wasn’t blind with rage I could have explained it to 
him in five minutes.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


221 


“If you merely mentioned it to Power I’m sure 
Kenrick would not so much mind. I’ll tell him about 
it when lie’s cooler,” said Whalley. 

“As you like, Whalley ; Kenrick has no business to 
suspect me in that shameful way, and to abuse me, 
and treat me as if I was quite beneath his notice, and 
cast old faults in my teeth,” answered Walter, with 
deep vexation. “Let him find out the truth for him- 
self. He can, if he takes the trouble.” 

Both the friends were thoroughly angry with each 
other; each of them imagined himself deeply wronged 
by the other, and each of them, in his irritation, used 
strong and unguarded expressions which lost nothing 
by repetition. Thus the “rift of difference” was 
cleft deeper and deeper between them ; and, chiefly 
through Kenrick’s pride and precipitancy, a disagree- 
ment which might at first have been easily adjusted, 
became a serious, and threatened to become a perma- 
nent quarrel. 

“ Power, did you repeat what I told you about Ken- 
rick to anyone?” asked Walter, next time he met 
him. 

“Repeat it?” said Power; “why, Walter, do you 
suppose I would? What do you take me for?” 

“All right, Power; I knew that you couldn’t do 
such a thing; but Kenrick declares I’ve spread it 
all over the school, and has just been abusing me like 
a pickpocket.” Walter told him the circumstances of 
the case, and Power, displeased for Walter’s sake, and 
sorry that two real friends should be separated by 
what he could not but regard as a venial error on 
Walter’s part, advised him to write a note to Kenrick, 
and explain the true facts of the case again. 

“But what’s the use, Power?” said Walter; “he 
would not listen to my explanation, and said as many 
hard things to me as he could.” 

“ Yes, in a passion. He’ll be sorry for them directly 
he’s calm ; for you know what a generous fellow he is. 
You can forgive them, I’m sure, Walter, and win the 
pleasure of being the first to make an advance.” 

Walter, after a little struggle with his resentment, 


222 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


wrote a note, and gave it to Whalley to give to Ken- 
rick next time he saw him. It ran as follows : 

“My dear Kenrick — I think you are a little hard 
upon me. Who can have told Jones anything about 
you and your home secrets I don’t know. He could 
not have learnt them through me. It’s true I did 
mention something about your father to Power when 
I was talking in the most affectionate way about you. 
I’m very sorry for this, but I never dreamt it would 
make you so angry. Power is the last person to 
repeat such a thing. Pray forgive me, and believe me 
always to be, your affectionate friend, 

“Walter Evson.” 

Kenrick’s first impulse on receiving this note was to 
seek Walter on the earliest occasion, and “make it 
up ” with him in the sincerest and heartiest way he 
could. But suddenly the sight of Jones and Mack- 
wortli vividly reminded his proud and sensitive nature 
of the scene that had caused him such acute pain. He 
did not see how Jones could have learnt about the 
vehicle, at any rate, without Walter having laughed 
over it to some one. Instead of seeking further ex- 
planation, or thinking no evil and hoping all things, 
he again gave reins to his anger and suspicion, and 
wrote : — 

“I am bound to believe your explanation as far as 
it goes. But I have reason to know that something 
more must have passed than what you admit yourself 
to have said. I am astonished that you should have 
treated me so unworthily. I would not have done so 
to you. I will try to forget this unpleasant business ; 
but it is only in a sense that I can sign myself again, 
your affectionate friend, 

“II. Kenrick.” 

Walter had not expected this cold, ungracious reply. 
When Whalley gave him Kenrick’s note he tore it 
open eagerly, anticipating a frank renewal of their 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


223 


former friendship ; but a red spot rose to his cheeks 
as he saw the insinuation that he had not told the 
whole truth, and as he tore up the note, he indignantly 
determined to take no further steps towards a recon- 
ciliation. 

Yet as he thought how many pleasant hours they 
had spent together, and how firmly on the whole Ken- 
rick had stood by him in his troubles, and how lovable 
a boy he really was, Walter could not but grieve over 
this difference. He found himself often yearning to 
be on the old terms with Kenrick; he felt that at 
heart he still loved him well, and after a few days he 
again stifled all pride, and wrote : — 

“Dear Ken — Is it possible that you will not believe 
my word? If you still feel any doubt about what 
I have said, do come and see me in Power’s study. I 
am sure that I would convince you in five minutes 
that you must be under some mistake ; and if I have 
done you any wrong, or if you think that I have done 
you any wrong, Ken, I’ll apologize sincerely without 
any pride or reserve. I miss your society very much, 
and I still am and shall be, whatever you may think 
and whatever you may say of me, yours affectionately, 

“ W. E.” 

As he naturally did not wish any third person to 
know what was passing between them he did not 
entrust this note to any one, but himself placed it 
between the leaves of an Herodotus which he knew 
that Kenrick would use at the next school. He had 
barely put it there when a boy who wanted an Herod- 
otus happened to come into the class-room, and see- 
ing Kenrick’s lying on the table, coolly walked off 
with it, after the manner of boys, regardless of the 
inconvenience to which the owner might be pub. As 
this boy was reading a different part of Herodotus 
from that which Kenrick was reading, Walter’s note 
lay between the leaves where it had been placed, 
unnoticed. When the book was done with, the boy 
forgot it, and left it in school, where, after kicking 


224 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


about for some clays unowned, it was consigned with 
other stray volumes to a miscellaneous cupboard, 
where it lay undisturbed for years. Kenrick supposed 
that it was lost, or that some one had “bagged”it; 
and, unknown to Walter, his note never reached the 
hands for which it had been destined. In vain he 
waited for a reply ; in vain he looked for some word 
or sign to show that Kenrick had received his letter. 
But Kenrick still met him in perfect silence, and with 
averted looks ; and Walter, surprised at his obstinate 
unkindness, thought that he could do nothing more to 
disabuse him of his false impression, and was the more 
ready to forego a friendship which by every honorable 
means he had endeavored to retain. 

Poor Kenrick ! he felt as much as Walter did that 
he had lost one of his truest and most pleasant friends, 
and he, too, often yearned for the old intercourse 
between them. Even his best friends, Power, Hen- 
derson, and Whalley, all thought him wrong; and in 
consequence a coolness rose between them and him. 
He felt thoroughly miserable, and did not know where 
to turn ; yet none the less he ostentatiously abstained 
from making the slightest overture to Walter; and 
whereas the two boys might have enjoyed together 
many happy hours, they felt a continual embarrass- 
ment at being obliged to meet each other very fre- 
quently in awkward silence, and apparent unconscious- 
ness of each other’s presence. This silent annoyance 
recurred continually at all hours of the day. They 
threw away the golden opportunity of smoothing and 
brightening for each other their schoolboy years. It 
is sad that since true friends are so few, such slight 
differences, such trivial misunderstandings, should 
separate them for years. If a man’s penitence for 
past follies be humble and sincere, his crimes and 
failings may well be buried in a generous oblivion ; 
but, alas ! his own friends, and they of his own house- 
hold, are too often the last to forgive and to forget. 
Too often they do not condone the fault till years of 
unhappiness and disappointment have intervened; 
till the wounds which they have inflicted are cica- 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


225 


trized; till the sinner’s loneliness has taught him to 
look for other than human sympathy ; till he is too 
old, too sorrowful, too heartbroken, too near the Great 
White Throne, to expect any joy from human friend- 
ship, or any consolation in human love. 

Twice did chance throw the friends into situations 
in which a reconciliation would have been easy. Once, 
when the school was assembled to hear the result of 
some composition prizes, they found themselves acci- 
dentally seated, one on each side of Power. The 
mottoes on the envelopes which were sent in with the 
successful exercises were always read out before the 
envelope was opened, and in one of the prizes for 
which there had been many competitors, the punning 
motto, J E$oo<rtd^u), told them at once that Power had 
again achieved a brilliant success. The Great Hall 
was always a scene for the triumphs of this happy boy. 
Both Walter and Kenrick turned at the same moment 
to congratulate him, Walter seizing his right hand 
and Kenrick his left. Power, after thanking them for 
their warm congratulations, grasped both their hands, 
and drew them towards each other. Kenrick was 
aware of what he meant, and his heart fluttered as he 
now hoped to regain a lost friend ; but just at that 
moment Walter’s attention happened to be attracted 
by Eden, who, though sitting some benches off, wished 
to telegraph his congratulations to Power. Unfort- 
unately, therefore, Walter turned his head away, be- 
fore he knew that Kenrick’s hand was actually touch- 
ing his. He did not perceive Power’s kind intention 
until the opportunity was lost; and Kenrick, misin- 
terpreting his conduct, had flushed with sudden pride, 
and hastily withdrawn his hand. 

On the second occasion Walter had gone up the hill 
to the churchyard, by the side of which was a pleasant 
stile, overshadowed by aged elms, on which he often 
sat reading or enjoying the breeze and the view. It 
suddenly occurred to him that he would look at Dau- 
beny’s grave, to see if the stone had yet been put up. 
He found that it had just been raised, and he was 
sorrowfully reading the inscription, when a footstep 
15 


226 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


roused him from his mournful recollections. A glance 
showed him that Kenrick was approaching, evidently 
with the same purpose. He came slowly to the grave 
and read the epitaph. Their eyes met in a friendly 
gaze. A sudden impulse to reconciliation seized them 
both, and they were on the verge of shaking hands, 
when three boys came sauntering through the church- 
yard: one of them was the ill-omened Jones. The 
association jarred on both their minds, and turning 
away without a word they walked home in different 
directions. 



THE GLORIOUS MID-DAY BATHES. 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 
eden’s troubles. 

Et tibi quae Samios diduxit littera ramos, 

Surgenten dextro monstravit limite callem. — P ers. iii. 56. 

There has the Samian Y’s instructive make, 

Pointed the road thy doubtful foot should take ; 

There warned thy raw and yet unpractised youth, 

To tread the rising right-hand path of truth. — B rewster. 

They went home in different directions, and morally 
too their paths henceforth were widely diverse. The 
Pythagoreans chose the letter Y as their symbol for a 
good and evil life. The broad, sloping, almost perpen- 
dicular left-hand stroke is an apt emblem for the facile 
downward descent into Avernus ; the precipitous and 
narrow right-hand stroke aptly presents the slippery, 
uphill ward struggle of a virtuous course. I remember 
to have seen, as a child, another and a similar emblem 
which impressed me much. On the one side of the 
picture a snail was slowly creeping up a steep path ; 

227 


228 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


on the other a stag rushed and bounded unrestrained 
down the sheer proclivities of a wide and darkening 
hill. Improvement is ever slow and difficult ; degen- 
eracy is too often startlingly rapid. From henceforth, 
as we shall have occasion to see hereafter, Walter was 
progressing from strength to strength, adding to faith 
virtue, and to virtue temperance, and to temperance 
knowledge, aud to knowledge brotherly kindness, and 
to brotherly kindness charity — 

Springing from crystal step to crystal step 

Of the bright air ; — 

while poor Kenrick was gradually descending deeper 
and deeper into darkness and despair. 

Yet he loved Walter, and sighed for the old inti- 
macy, while he was daily abusing his character and 
affecting to scorn his conduct. In short, a change 
came over Kenrick. There had always been a little 
worm at the root of his admiration of and affection for 
Walter. It was jealousy. He did not like to hear 
him praised so loudly by his friends and schoolfellows ; 
and besides this he was vexed that Walter, Henderson, 
and Power were more closely allied to each other 
than to him. He had struggled successfully against 
these unworthy feelings so long as Walter was his 
friend, but now that he had allowed himself to seek a 
quarrel with him they grew up with tremendous luxu- 
riance. And he was so thoroughly in the wrong, and 
so obstinate in persisting to misunderstand and mis- 
represent his former friend, that gradually, by his 
pertinacity and injustice, he alienated the regards of 
all those who had once been his chosen companions. 
Even Whalley grew cool towards him. He had to 
look elsewhere for associates, and unhappily he looked 
in the wrong direction. 

Meanwhile Walter, although he constantly grieved 
at the loss of a friend, was otherwise very happy. 
The boys at St. Winifred’s were not overworked ; 
there was enough work to stimulate but not to op- 
press them, and Walter’s work grew more promising 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


229 


every day. Pie was fond of praise, and Mr. Percival, 
while he always took care so to praise him as to ob- 
viate the danger of conceit, was not too scant of his ap- 
probation as most men are. His warm and generous 
appreciation encouraged and rewarded Walter’s exer- 
tions, so that he was quite the “star” of his form. 
Many other boys did well under Mr. Percival. There 
was a bright and cheerful emulation among them all, 
and they took especial pains with their exercises, 
which Mr. Percival varied in every possible way, so as 
to call out the imagination and the fancy, to exercise 
both the reason and the understanding, and to test 
the powers of attention and research. Ilis method 
was so successful that it was often a real pleasure to 
look over the exercises of his form, and he had adopted 
one plan for keeping up the boys’ interest in them, 
which was eminently useful. All the best exercises, 
if they attained to any positive excellence, were sent 
to Dr. Lane ; and at the end of the half-year, a number, 
printed opposite to the boy’s name, showed how often 
he had thus been “sent up for good.” If in one fort- 
night/b^r separate exercises were so sent up, the form 
obtained, by this proof of industry, the remission of 
an hour’s work, and as this honor could never be cheaply 
won it was highly prized. Now two or three times 
Walter’s unusually brilliant exercises had been the chief 
contribution towards winning these remitted hours, 
and this success caused him double happiness, because 
it necessarily made him a general favorite with the 
form. Henderson (who had only got a single remove 
at the beginning of the term, but had worked so hard 
in his new form that he had succeeded in his purpose 
of winning a remove during the term, and so being 
again in the same division with Walter) did his best to 
earn the same distinction, but he only succeeded when 
the exercise happened to be an English one, and on a 
subject which gave some opportunity for his sense of 
the ludicrous. He generally contrived to introduce 
some purely fictitious “ Eastern Apologue ” as he called 
it; and as he rarely managed to keep the correct 
oriental coloring, his combinations of Sultans, Tchok- 


230 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


adars, Odalisques, and white bears were sometimes 
so inexpressibly absurd that Mr. Percival, to avoid 
fits of laughter, was obliged to look over his exercises 
alone. Nor were his eccentricities always confined to 
his English themes ; his Latin verses were occasionally 
no less extraordinary, and in one set, on the suicide of 
Ajax, the last few lines consisted of fragmentary words 
interspersed here and there with numerous stars — a 
phenomenon which he explained to Mr. Percival in 
the gravest manner possible, by saying that here the 
voice of Ajax was interrupted by sobs ! 

Happy in his work, Walter was no less happy in his 
play. The glorious mid-day baths on the hard spark- 
ling yellow sands when the sea was smooth as the blue 
of heaven, and clear as a transparent glass — the long 
afternoons on the green and sunny cricket field — the 
strolls over the mountains, and lazy readings under a 
tree in the fragrant fir-groves — all invigorated him, and 
gave to his face the health, and to his heart the mirth, 
which told of an innocent life and a vigorous frame. 

But it must not be supposed that he escaped troubles 
of his own, and his first trouble arose out of the kind 
boyish protectorate which he had established over little 
Eden’s interests. 

His rescue of Eden from the clutches of a bad lot was 
one of Walter’s proudest and gladdest reminiscences. 
Instead of moping about miserable and lonely, and 
rapidly developing into a rank harvest the evil seeds 
which his tormentors had tried to plant in his young 
heart, Eden was now the gayest of the gay. Secure 
from most annoyances by possessing the refuge of 
Power’s study, and the certainty of Walter’s help, 
he soon began to assert his own position among all 
the boys of his own age and standing. No longer 
crushed and intimidated by bullying and bad compan- 
ions, he was lively, happy, and universally liked, but 
never happier than when Walter and Power admitted 
him, as they constantly did, into their own society. 

Harpour and Jones, in their hatred against W alter, 
had an especial reason to keep Eden as far as they 
could under subjection, in addition to their general 


ST. WINIFRED' 1 S. 


231 


propensity to bully and domineer. They did not care 
to torment him when Walter was present, because with 
him, in spite of their hostility, they felt it wise to 
maintain an armed neutrality. But whenever Walter 
was absent, they felt themselves safe. None of the 
other boys in their dormitory interfered except Hender- 
son, and his interposition, though always generous, 
was both morally and physically weaker than Walter’s. 
He would not, indeed, allow any positive cruelty, but 
he was not thoughtful or stable enough to see the 
duty of interfering to prevent other and hardly less 
tolerable persecutions. 

It so happened that at a game of cricket Walter by 
accident had received a blow on the knee from the 
cricket ball bowled by Franklin, who was a tremen- 
dously hard and swift bowler. The hurt which this 
had caused was so severe that he was ordered by Dr. 
Keith to sleep on the ground-floor in the cottage for 
a fortnight in order to save him the exertion of run- 
ning up and down so many stairs. The opportunity 
of this prolonged absence was maliciously seized by 
the tyrants of No. 10; but Eden bore up far more man- 
fully than he had done in the old days. He was quite 
a different, and a far braver little fellow, thanks to Wal- 
ter, than he had been the term before ; and, looking 
forward to his friend’s speedy return, he determined to 
bear his troubles without saying a word about them. He 
was far more bullied during this period than Henderson 
knew of, for some of the threats and commands by 
which he was coerced were given in Henderson’s ab- 
sence, as he was allowed to sit up half an hour later 
than those in the form below. For instance, Eden 
was ordered never to look at a book or to finish learn- 
ing his lessons in the bedroom ; and he was strictly 
forbidden to get up until the second bell rang in the 
morning. If lie disobeyed these orders, he was soused 
with water, pelted with shoes, and beaten with slip- 
pers, and on the whole he found it better to be content 
to lose place in form, and to get impositions for miss- 
ing chapel, than to attempt to brave these hindrances. 
When, however, he had been late two mornings run- 


232 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


ning, Henderson got the secret out of him, and at once 
entreated Harpour and Jones to abandon this cruelty, 
throwing out hints that if they refused, he would take 
some measures to get it stopped by one of the monitors. 
If Eden had been plucky enough to embrace his natural 
right of obtaining protection from one of his own 
schoolfellows in the sixth, he would have been efficiently 
defended. Appealing to a monitor in order to secure 
immunity from disgraceful and wholly intolerable 
bullying is a very different thing from telling a master ; 
and although the worst boys tried to get it traditionally 
regarded as an unmitigated form of sneaking, yet the 
public opinion of the best part of the school would 
have been found to justify it. But the two bullies 
knew that Eden would never have the heart to venture 
on this appeal ; and although they desisted from this 
particular practice at Henderson’s request, they knew 
that he was too wavering a character, and too fond of 
popularity, to be easily induced to make them his open 
enemies. If Eden had only told Walter, he knew that 
Walter would have sheltered him from unkindness at 
all hazards; but he was a thoroughly grateful child, 
and did not wish to get Walter into any difficulties on 
his account. So, in schoolboy phrase, there was nothing 
left for him but to “ grin and bear it ; ” which he heroic- 
ally did, earnestly longing for Walter’s return to the 
dormitory as for some golden age. But his trials were 
not over yet. 

Is there in human nature an instinctive cruelty? 
That there is in it — when ill-trained — an absorbing 
selfishness, a total absence of all tenderness and deli- 
cate consideration's abundantly obvious. But besides 
this, there is often an astonishing and almost incredible 
tendency to take positive pleasure in the infliction of 
pain. Now it so happens that Jones and Harpour 
were bad boys, as I have shown already, in the worst 
sense of the word, and yet the real enjoyment which 
they felt in making little Eden’s life miserable is an 
inexplicable phenomenon. One would have thought 
that the mere sight of the little boy, his tender age, 
his delicate look, his extreme gentleness and courtesy 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


233 


of manner, and the mute appealing glance in his blue 
eyes, would have sufficed to protect Turn from wanton 
outrage. It did suffice with most boys ; but if anything, 
it added zest and piquancy to the persecutions of those 
two big bullies. 

Reader, have you ever been “taken prisoner”? — 
that is to say, have you ever been awaked from a sweet 
sleep by feeling an intolerable agony in your right 
toe, and finding that it is caused by somebody having 
tied a string tight round it without waking you, and 
then pulling the said string with all his force? If not, 
congratulate yourself thereupon, and accept the assur- 
ance of one who has undergone it, that the pain caused 
by this process is absolutely excruciating. It was this 
pain which made Eden start up with a scream during 
one of the nights I speak of, and the cry rose in inten- 
sity as he grew fully awake to the sensation. 

“Hallo! what’s the row, Eden?” said Henderson, 
starting up in bed ; but the child could only continue 
his screams, and Henderson, springing out of bed 
stumbled against the string, and instantly (for the 
trick was a familiar one) knew what was being done. 
As quick as thought he seized the string with his right 
hand and, by pulling it toicarcls Eden, slackened the 
horrible tension of it, while with his left hand he 
rapidly took out a knife from his coat pocket and cut 
the cord in two. 

Jones and Harpour, tittering at the success of their 
machination, were standing with the string in their 
hands just outside the door in the passage, and the 
sudden jerk showed them that the string was severed. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is,” said Henderson to them, 
with the most deliberate emphasis, “I don’t care if 
you do lick me for telling you the truth, but you two 
are just a couple of the greatest brutes in the school.” 

“ Wliat’s the matter, Flip ? ” asked Franklin, from 
his bed, in a drowsy tone. 

“ Matter ! why those two brutes ,” said Henderson, 
with strong indignation, “have been taking poor little 
Eden prisoner, and hurting him awfully.” 

“ What a confounded shame ! ” said Franklin and 


234 


ST. WINIFBFLS. 


Anthony in one voice ; for they, too, though they were 
sturdy fellows, had had some experience of the bullies 
in their earlier school days ; and of late, following 
Walter’s example, they had always energetically 
opposecUthis maltreatment of Eden. 

“ Draw it mild, you three, or we’ll kick you,” said 
Harpour. 

“But we won’t draw it mild,” said Franklin, “it’s 
quite true; you and Jones are brutes to bully that 
poor little fellow so. He never hurt you.” 

“ What an uppish lot you nips are,” said Harpour ; 
“it’s all that fellow Evson’s doing. Hang me, if I 
don’t take it out of you ; ” and he advanced with a 
slipper in his hand towards Franklin. 

“ Touch him if you dare,” said Henderson ; “ if you 
do, Anthony and I will stick by him ; and Cradock, 
you’ll see fair play, won’t you ? ” 

“ Pooh ! ” said Cradock, “ Pm asleep. Fight it out 
by yourselves.” 

“ Never mind these little fools, Harpour,” said Jones ; 
“they’re beneath your notice. Besides, it’s time to 
turn off to sleep.” For Jones had earned his sobriquet 
by always showing a particularly large white feather 
when there was any chance of a fray. 

“Phew, Jones; none of us would give much for 
you” said Henderson contemptuously. “ Little fools, 
indeed ! You know very well that you daren’t lay a 
finger on the least of us, whether we’re beneath your 
notice or no. An ostrich is a big bird, but its white 
feathers are chiefly of use in helping it to run away.” 
He went to Eden’s bedside, for the child was still sob- 
bing with pain, and was evidently in a great state of 
nervous agitation. 

“Never mind, Eden,” he said, in a kind and sooth- 
ing voice; “think no more of it; we won’t let them 
take you prisoner again.” And as he spoke he took 
his place by Eden’s side, and looked with angry defi- 
ance at the two bullies. 

“Those fellows hurt me so,” said Eden, in an apolo- 
getic tone, bravely trying to check his tears. “Oh, 1 
wish Evson would come back.” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


235 


“ He is coming buck in a night or two ; his knee is 
nearly well. I haven’t helped you enough, poor little 
fellow. I’m so sorry. I say, you brutes ,” he continued 
raising his voice, “ next time you bully Eden, I’ll tell 
Somers as sure as fate.” 

“Tell away then,” jeered Harpour; “better go and 
tell him before your shoes wear out.” 

“ Ah, you’ll change your tone, Master Harpour, 
when you’ve been well whopped,” answered Hender- 
son. 

“ I should like to see Somers or any one else whop 
me,” said Harpour, in an extremely “Ercles vein”; 
“by Jove! Lane himself shouldn’t do it.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” 

“ I’ll ‘ oh, indeed ’ you ! ” said Harpour, getting out 
of bed ; but here Cradock interfered, seized Harpour 
with his brawny arm, and said — 

“ There, that’s badgering enough for one night. Do 
let a fellow go to sleep.” 

Harpour got into bed again, and Henderson once 
more reassuring Eden that he should not be again 
molested, followed his example. But, half with fright 
and half with pain, the poor boy lay awake most of the 
night, and when he did fall asleep he constantly 
started up again with troubled dreams. 

Next morning, the two parties in the dormitory 
would hardly speak to each other. They rose at 
daggers drawn, and in the highest dudgeon. Hender- 
son was glad Anthony and Franklin had openly 
espoused the right side, and was pleased at anything 
which drew them out of the pernicious influence of 
the other two. This wasn’t by any means a pleasant 
state of things for Jones and Harpour, and it made 
them hate Eden, the innocent cause of it, more than 
ever. Moreover, Harpour, who was not accustomed to 
be openly bearded, did not choose to let the reins of 
despotism slip so easily out of his hands, and deter- 
mined to avenge himself yet, and to show that neither 
entreaties nor threats should prevent him from being 
as great a bully as he chose. 

“ Understand you, Henderson,” he said, while they 


236 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


were dressing, “that I shall do exactly what I like to 
that little muff there.” 

Eden reddened and said nothing, but Henderson, 
looking up from his wash-hand basin, replied — “And 
understand you, Harpour, that if you bully him any 
more, I’ll tell the head of the school.” 

Harpour made a spring at Henderson to thrash him 
for these words, but again the burly Cradock inter- 
posed, saying, good-humoredly, as he put himself in 
Harpour’s way, “ There, stop squabbling, for good- 
ness’ sake, you two, and let’s have a little peace. Flip, 
you shut up.” 



f 

r 




THE BOY FELL BACK, PALE AS DEATH. 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. 

eden’s troubles. 

Alas ! how easily things go wrong ! 

And there follows a mist and a weeping rain, 

And life is never the same again ! 

Geo. Macdonald, Phantasies. 

Eden felt an immeasurable delight when Walter was 
allowed to come back to the dormitory, and now he 
thought himself happy in a perfect security from fur- 
ther torment. 

But the two tyrants had other views. Harpour, at 
once passionate and dogged, was not likely to forget 
that he had been thwarted and defied ; and if he had 
been so inclined, Jones would not have allowed him to 
do so, but kept egging him on to show his contempt 
for the younger and weaker boys who had. tried to 
check his bullying propensities. On the last occasion 
when he had ordered Eden to go to Dan’s, Eden had 
taken Walter’s advice, and firmly refused to go. Har- 
pour did not think it safe to compel him, but he threw 

237 


238 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


oat some significant threats which filled the little boy 
with vague alarm and weighed heavily on his spirits. 
He did not tell any one of these threats, hoping that 
they would end in nothing, and, in case of any emer- 
gency, trusting implicitly on Walter for a generous and 
efficient protection. 

But the threats did not end in nothing. 

One night, after the others had fallen asleep, Eden, 
feeling quite free from all anxiety, was sleeping more 
soundly and sweetly than he had done for a fortnight, 
when a blaze of light, flashing suddenly upon his eyes, 
made him start up in his bed. Harpour and Jones 
were taking this opportunity to fulfil their threats of 
frightening him. At the foot of his bed stood a figure 
in white, with a hideous, deformed head, blotched with 
scarlet ; bending over him was another white figure, 
with an enormous black face, holding over its head a 
shining hand. 

In an instant the boy fell back, pale as death, utter- 
ing a shriek so shrill and terrible, so full of wildness 
and horror, that every other boy in the dormitory 
sprang up, alarmed and wide awake. 

Walter and Henderson leaped out of bed immediately ; 
and to Walter, who was unprepared, the start of sur- 
prise at what he saw was so sudden, that for a moment 
he stood absolutely paralyzed and bewildered, because 
the shock on the nerves had preceded the recognition, 
though by an infinitesimally short time. But Hender- 
son, who knew how Jones and Harpour had been going 
on, and what their threats had been, instantly, and 
before the abrupt and unusual spectacle had power 
to unnerve him, saw the true state of the case, and 
springing out upon the figure which stood at the end of 
Eden’s bed, tore the mask away, stripped off the sheet, 
and displayed Jones’s face before he had time to hide it, 
administering, as he did so, a hearty blow on Jones’s 
chest, which made that hero stagger several paces 
back. 

Although Walter saw almost at once the trick that 
was being played with masks, sheets, and phosphorus, 
yet the sudden shock upon his nerves not being also - 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


239 


lutely co-instantaneous with the discovery, produced on 
him the effect of utter dizziness and horror. Hender- 
son’s prompt and vigorous onslaught aroused him to a 
sense of the position, and with a fierce expression of 
disgust and anger, he bounded upon Ilarpour, who, 
being thus suddenly attacked, dropped upon the floor 
the dark lantern which he held, and hastily retreated, 
flinging the sheet over Walter’s head. 

Walter had barely disentangled himself from the 
folds of the sheet, when an exclamation from Hender- 
son attracted the notice of all the boys in the room, 
and brought them flocking round Eden’s bed. Hender- 
son had picked up the dark lantern, and was kneeling 
with it over the unconscious boy, whose face was so 
ashy white, and who, after several sharp screams, had 
sunk into so deep a swoon, that Henderson, unused to 
such sights, naturally exclaimed — 

“Good God! you’ve killed him.” 

“ Killed him ?” repeated the others, standing aghast. 

“ Pooh ! he’s only fainted, you little fools,” said Jones, 
who hurried up to look in Eden’s face. “ Here, we’ll 
soon bring him to ; Harpour, just get us some water.” 

“You shan’t touch him, you shan’t come near him,” 
said Walter furiously ; “ stand back, you hateful bullies. 
Henderson and I will attend to him ; and, depend upon 
it, you shall give account for this soon. What ! you 
will come?” he continued, shaking Jones’s arm vio- 
lently, and then flinging him back as easily as though 
he had been a child; “if either you or Harpour come 
near the bed, I’ll fetch Robertson instantly. Eden 
would go off again in a swoon if he saw such brutes as 
you when he recovered.” 

In such a mood Walter was not to be resisted. The 
two plotters, picking up their masks, retired somewhat 
crestfallen, and sat down on their beds, while the rest, 
with the utmost tenderness, adopted every means 
they knew to recall Eden’s fluttered and agitated 
senses. 

But his swoon was deeper than they could manage, 
and, growing too violently alarmed to trust themselves 
any longer, Henderson and Walter proposed to carry 


240 


ST. WINIFRED S. 


him to the sick-room, and put him at once under the 
care of Dr. Keith. It was in vain that Jones and 
Ilarpour entreated, threatened, implored them to delay 
a little longer, lest by taking Eden to the sick-room, 
their doings should be discovered. Wholly disregard- 
ing all they said, the two boys uplifted their still 
fainting friend, and when Ilarpour attempted to in- 
terfere between them and the door, Cradock and 
Franklin, now thoroughly sickened by their proceed- 
ings, pulled him aside and let them pass. 

Dr. Keith instantly administered to Eden a restora- 
tive, and after receiving from Walter a hurried expla- 
nation of the circumstances, gently told the boys that 
they would be only in the way there, that Eden was 
evidently in a critical position, and that they had 
better return at once to their dormitories. 

Walter and Henderson, when they returned, were 
assailed by the others with eager inquiries, to which 
they could only give gloomy and uncertain answers. 
They would not vouchsafe to take the slightest notice 
of Jones or Ilarpour, but met all their remarks with 
resolute silence. But before he went to sleep, Walter 
said, “ I may as well let you fellows know that I in- 
tend to report you to Somers to-morrow.” 

“Then you’ll be a sneak,” observed Ilarpour. 

“ It is not sneaking to prevent brutal bullying like 
yours, by giving others the chance of stopping it, and 
preventing little chaps like poor Eden, whom you’ve 
nearly frightened to death, from being so shamefully 
treated. Anyhow, sneaking or not, I’ll do it.” 

“ If you do tell Somers, look out for yourself — that’s 
all.” 

“ I’m not afraid,” was the brief retort. 

Ilarpour knew that he meant what he said, and, 
being now desperate, he got up half-an-hour earlier 
next morning to try and extort from him, by main 
force, a promise to hold his tongue about the affair of 
the night before. If he had at all understood Walter’s 
character, he might have saved himself this very 
superfluous trouble. 

Walter was awoke by a shake from Harpour, who, 


ST. WINIFRED’ S. 


241 


with Jones, was standing by his bed. He saw what 
was coming, for Harpour, who had a pair of braces 
tightly knotted in his hand, briefly opened the pro- 
ceedings by saying, “ Are you going to sneak about me, 
or not ? ” 

“ To sneak — no ; to tell the head of the school — yes.” 

“ Then, by Jove, you shall have something worth 
telling; I’ll take my revenge out of you beforehand. 
I shall be sent away — think of that.” 

“ So much the better. One bully the less.” 



“ Oh, that’s your tune? Take that.” The buckle of 
the brace descended sharply on Walter’s back, draw- 
ing blood; the next instant "he had wrested it out of 
Ilarpour’s hand, and returned the blow. 

The scuffle had awoke the rest. Walter jumped out 
of bed and was hurrying on his trousers and slippers, 
when Harpour knocked him down. 

« Fair play, Harpour,” said Henderson and Franklin, 
angrily, seizing Harpour’s arms; “you’re surely not 
going to fight him, Walter?” 

16 


242 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


“ Yes ; see fair play, you fellows ; Cradock, you will, 
won’t you ? Fair play is all I want. Flip, you see that 
Jones tries no mean dodge. Now, Harpour, are you 
ready ? Then take that.” 

Walter hit him a steady blow in the face, and the 
fight between these unequally-matched combatants — a 
boy barely fifteen against a much stronger boy of 
seventeen — began. The result could not be dubious. 
Walter fought with indomitable pluck; it was splen- 
did to see the sturdiness with which he bore up under 
the blows of Harpour’s strong fist, which he could only 
return at intervals. He was tremendously punished, 
while Harpour was barely touched, except by one well- 
directed blow which flashed the fire out of his eyes. 
At last he dealt Walter a heavy blow full on the fore- 
head; the boy reeled, caught hold of the wash-hand 
stand to stay his fall, and dragged it after him on the 
floor with a thundering crash, dashing the jug and 
basin all to shivers. 

The smash brought in Mr. Robertson, whose rooms 
were nearest to No. 10. He opened his eyes in amaze- 
ment as he came in. On one of the beds lay the two 
masks and dark lantern which had been used to frighten 
Eden ; on the floor, supported by Franklin and Hen- 
derson, sat poor Walter, his nose streaming with blood, 
and his face horribly bruised and disfigured ; Harpour 
sheepishly surveyed his handiwork; and Jones, on the 
first alarm, had rushed back to bed, covered himself 
with blankets, and lay to all appearance fast asleep. 

“ Evson ! what’s all this ? ” asked the master in 
astonishment. 

Walter, sick and giddy, was in no condition to an- 
swer ; but the position of affairs was tolerably obvious. 

“ Is this your doing ? ” asked Mr. Robertson of Har- 
pour, very sternly, pointing to Walter. 

“ He hit me first.” 

“ Liar,” said Henderson, glaring up at him. 

“Hush, sir; no such language in my presence,” said 
Mr. Robertson. “ Cradock, do you mean to say that a 
big fellow like you could stand by, and see Harpour 
thus cruelly misuse a boy not nearly his size?” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


243 


“ It was a fight, sir.” 

“ Fight ! ” said Mr, Robertson ; “ look at those two 
boys, and don’t talk nonsense to me.” 

“ I oughtn’t to have let them fight, I know,” said 
Cradock; “and I wish, sir, you’d put Harpour and 
Jones into another room ; they’re always bullying 
Eden, and it was for him that Evson fought.” 

“ Harpour,” said Mr. Robertson, “ you are absolutely 
despicable; a viler figure than you present at this mo- 
ment could not be conceived. I shall move you to an- 
other dormitory, where some monitor can restrain your 
brutality ; and, meanwhile, I confine you to gates for 
a month, and you will bring me up one hundred lines 
every day till further notice.” 

He was leaving the room, but catching sight of Wal- 
ter, he returned, and said kindly, “Evson, my poor 
boy, I’m afraid you’re sadly hurt ; I’m truly sorry for 
you ; you seem to have been behaving in a very noble 
way, and I honor you. Henderson, I think you’d bet- 
ter go with him to I)r. Keith,” he continued ; for Wal- 
ter, though he heard what was said, was too much hurt 
and shaken to speak a word. 

“ Come, Walter,” said Henderson, gently helping 
him to rise; “I hope you’re not very much hurt, old 
fellow. That brute Harpour won’t trouble you again, 
anyhow; nor his parasite Jones. Lean on my. arm. 
Franklin, you come and give Walter your arm, too.” 

They helped him to the sick-room, for he could 
barely trail his legs after him. Dr. Keith laid him 
down quietly on a sofa, put some arnica to the bruises 
on his face, and told him to lie still and go quietly to 
sleep. “He is not very much hurt,” he said, in answer 
to the inquiries of the boys; “but the. fall he has had 
is quite sufficiently serious in its consequences to ren- 
der absolute rest necessary to him for some days. You 
may come and see him sometimes.” 

“And now, you fellow, Harpour,” said Henderson, 
re-entering the dormitory; “as you’ve knocked up 
Evson, and half killed Eden, Til tell Somers. Do you 
hear? and I hope he’ll thrash you till you can’t stand.” 

“ He daren’t ; Robertson’s punished me already.” 


244 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


“ He dare, and will ; you won’t get off so lightly as 
all that.” 

“ You’re a set of sneaks ; and I’ll be even with you 
yet,” growled Harpour, too much cowed to resent 
Henderson’s defiance. 

Henderson laughed scornfully ; and Cradock said, 
“ And I'll tell the whole school what bullies you’ve 
been, Harpour and Jones.” 

“ And I,” said Franklin ; “ I don’t envy you two.” 

“The school doesn’t consist altogether of such softs 
as your lot, luckily,” answered Harpour. 

“ Softs or not, we’ve put a spoke in your wheel for 
the present,” answered Franklin ; “ I congratulate you 
on the rich black eye which one of the softs, half your 
size, has given you.” 

“They’re not worth snarling with, Franklin,” said 
Henderson; “we shall be rid of him and Jones from 
No. 10 henceforth; that’s one blessing.” 



WALTER AND EDEN. 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. 

A TURBULENT SCHOOL MEETING. 

I hate when vice can bolt her arguments, 

And virtue have no tongue to check her pride. 

Milton’s Comus. 

Next morning, after second school, Power went to 
see how Eden and Walter were getting on. lie opened 
the door softly, and they did not observe his entrance. 

Eden, very pale, and with an expression of pain and 
terror still reflected in his face, lay in a broken and 
restless sleep. Walter was sitting as still as death by 
the head of the bed. A book lay on his knees, but he 
had not been reading. He was in a “brown study,” 
and the dreamy far-off look with which his eyes were 
fixed upon vacancy showed how his thoughts had 
wandered. It was the same look which attracted 
Power’s attention when he first saw Walter in chapel, 
and which had shown him that he was no common 
boy. It often made him watch Walter, and wonder 
what could be occupying his thoughts. 

It was looking at poor little Eden that had suggested 

245 


246 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


to Walter’s mind the train of thought into which he 
had fallen. As he saw the child tossing uneasily 
about, waking every now and then to half-conscious- 
ness with a violent start, occasionally delirious, and 
to all appearance seriously ill — as he thought over Dr. 
Keith’s remark, that even when he was quite well 
again his nervous system would be probably found to 
have received a shock of which the effects would never 
be obliterated during life,— he could not help fretting 
very bitterly over the injury and suffering of his 
friend. And his own spirits were greatly shaken. It 
was of little matter that every time he raised his hand 
to cool his forehead, or ease the throbbing of his head, 
he felt how much he was bruised, cut, and swollen, or 
that the looking-glass showed him a face so hideously 
disfigured; he knew that this would grow right in a 
day or two, and he cared nothing for it. But when 
Harpour’s blow knocked him down, he had dashed his 
head with some violence on the floor, and this had 
hurt him so much and made him feel so ill, that Dr. 
Keith was not without secret fears about the pos- 
sibility of a concussion of the brain. Yet all the sor- 
row which Walter now felt was for Eden, and he was 
not thinking of himself. 

He was mentally staring face to face at the mystery 
of human cruelty and malice. The little boy, whose 
fine qualities so few besides himself had discovered, 
was lying before him in pain and nervous prostration, 
solely because malignant unkindness seemed to give 
pleasure to two bad, brutal fellows. Walter had him- 
self rescued Eden by his consistent kindness from being 
bullied, corrupted, tormented — yet apparently to little 
purpose. That the poor boy’s powers wouid be de- 
cidedly injured by this last prank was certain. Dr. 
Keith had dropped mysterious hints, and Walter had 
himself heard how wild and incoherent were Eden’s 
murmurs. If he should become an idiot? O God! 
that men and boys should have stick hearts ! 

And then and there Walter, while yet a boy, solemnly 
and consciously recorded an unspoken vow that he at 
least, till death, would do all that lay in his own power 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


247 


to lighten, not to increase, the sum of human misery ; 
that he would study all things that were kind, and 
gentle, and tender-hearted, in his dealings with others ; 
that he would ever be on the watch against wounding 
thoughts, and uncharitable judgments, and unkind 
deeds ; above all, that he would strive with all his 
power against the temptation to cutting and sarcastic 
words, against calumny, and misrepresentation, against 
envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. These 
were the noble thoughts and high resolves which were 
passing through the boy’s mind when Power’s quiet 
footstep entered the room. 

Power stopped for a minute to look at the somewhat 
saddening picture in the darkened room ; — Walter, 
still as death, deep in thought, his chin leaning on his 
hand, and his face presenting an uncouth mixture of 
shapes and colours as he sat by Eden’s bedside ; and 
Eden turning and moaning in an unrefreshing sleep. 
Walter started from his reverie and smiled, as Power 
noiselessly approached. 

“My poor Walter, how marked you are!” 

“ Oh, never mind ; it’s nothing. I had a good cause, 
and it’s done good.” 

“Poor fellow! But how’s Arty? He looks wretch- 
edly ill.” 

“ He’s in a sad way Pm afraid, Power,” said Walter, 
shaking his head. 

“ I hope he’ll be all right soon.” 

“ Yes, I hope so ; but we shall have to take great 
care of him.” 

“ Poor child, poor child ! ” said Power, bending over 
him compassionately. 

“ Has Flip told Somers of Harpour?” asked Walter. 

“ I don’t know whether you are quite up to hearing 
school news yet ? ” 

“ Oh yes! tell me all about it,” said Walter eagerly. 

“Well, I’ve no good news to tell. It’s a case of 
x6vo$ 7 zovo) novov <p£pei, as Percival said when I told him 
about you and Eden. By the bye, he sent all sorts of 
kind messages, and will come and see you.” 

“Thanks; — but about Harpour?” 

“ Well, Flip meant to tell Somers, but the whole 


248 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


thing spread over the school at once, before morning 
chapel was well over; so, Ditnock being head of Rob- 
ertson’s house, thought it was his place to take it up. 
He sent for Harpour in the class-room, and told him 
he meant to cane him for his abominable, ruffianly 
conduct ; but before he’d begun, Harpour seized hold 
of the cane, and wouldn’t let it go. Luckily Dimock 
didn’t fly into a rage, nor did he let himself down by 
a fight which Harpour wanted to bring on. He simply 
let go of the cane quite coolly, and said, “ Very well, 
Harpour, it would have been a good deal the best for 
you to have taken quietly the caning you so thoroughly 
deserve ; as you don’t choose to do that, I shall put 
the matter in Somer’s hands. I’m glad to be rid of 
the responsibility.” 

“Did it end there?” 

“Not a bit of it; the school are in a ferment. You 
know the present monitors, and particularly Somers, 
aren’t popular ; now Harpour is popular, although he’s 
such a brute, because he’s a great swell at cricket and 
the games. I’m afraid we shall have a regular moni- 
torial row. The monitors have convened a meeting 
this morning to decide about Harpour ; and, to tell 
you the truth, I shouldn’t wonder if the school got up 
a counter-meeting.” 

“ Don’t any of the masters know about Eden ? ” 

“Not officially, though I should think some rumors 
must have got to them.” 

“ But surely it’s very odd that the school should side 
with Jones and Harpour, after the shameful mischief 
they’ve done? ” 

“ Odd, a priori but lots of things always combine to 
make up a school opinion, you know ; the fellows just 
catch up what they hear first. But who do you think 
is foremost champion on the school side — stirring them 
up to resist, abusing you, abusing Flip, abusing the 
monitors, and making light of Harpour’s doings?” 

Walter asked “Who?” but lie knew beforehand 
that Power’s answer would be — 

“ Kenrick ! ” 

After this he said nothing, but put his hand wearily 


ST. WINIFRED 11 S. 


249 


to his head, which, in his weak state, was aching vio- 
lently with the excitement of the news which Power 
had told him. 

“ Ah ! I see, Walter, you’re not quite well enough 
yet to be bothered. I’ll leave you quiet. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye. Do come again soon, and tell me how 
things go on.” 

Strolling out from the sad sick-room into the court, 
Power was attracted into the great school-room by the 
sound of angry voices. Entering, he found half the 
school, and all the lower forms, collected round the 
large desk at which the head-master usually sat. A 
great many were talking at once, and every tongue 
was engaged in discussing the propriety, in this in- 
stance, of any monitorial interference. 

“Order, order,” shouted one or two of the few fifth- 
form fellows present ; “ let’s have the thing managed 
properly. Who’ll take the chair? ” 

There was a general call for Ken rick, and as he was 
one of the highest fellows in the room, lie got into the 
chair, and amid a general silence delivered his views 
of the present affair. 

“You all know,” he said, “ that Dimock meant to 
cane Harpour because he played off a joke against one 
of the fellows last night. Harpour refused to take the 
caning, and the monitors are holding a meeting this 
morning to decide what to do about Harpour. Now 1 
maintain that they’ve no right to do anything ; and 
it’s very important that we shouldn’t let them have 
just their own way. The thing was merely a joke. 
Who thinks anything of just putting on a mask in fun, 
to startle another fellow ? one constantly hears of its be- 
ing done merely to raise a laugh, and we must all have 
often seen pictures of it. Of course, in this case, every 
one is extremely sorry for the consequences, hut it was 
impossible to foresee them, and nobody has any right 
to judge of the act because it has turned out so unluck- 
ily. I vote that we put the question — ‘ Have the moni- 
tors any right to interfere?’ ” 

Loud applause greeted the end of Kenrick’s speech, 
and the little bit at the end about separating an act 


250 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


from its consequences told wonderfully among the 
boys. They raised an almost unanimous cry of “ Well 
done, Ken,” “ quite right,” “ Harpour shan’t be caned.” 

Henderson had been watching Kenrick with an ex- 
pression of intense anger and disdain. At the end of 
his remarks, he sprang, rather than rose up, and im- 
mediately began to pour out an impetuous answer. 
His first words, before the fellows had observed that 
he meant to speak, were drowned in the general up- 
roar; and when they had all caught sight of him, an 
expression of decided disapprobation ran round the 
throng of listeners. It did not make him swerve in 
the slightest degree. Looking round scornfully and 
steadily, he said — 

“ I know why some of you hiss. You think I told 
Dimock of Harpour. As it happens, I didn't ; but I’m 
neither afraid nor ashamed to tell you all, as I told 
Harpour to his face, that I had fully intended to do it, 
— or rather I meant to tell, not Dimock, but Somers. 
Will you let me speak ? ” lie asked angrily, as his last 
sentence was interrupted by a burst of groans, com- 
menced by a few of those whose interests were most 
at stake, and taken up by the mass of ignorant boys. 

Power plucked Henderson by the sleeve, and whis- 
pered, “ Hush, Flip ; go on, but keep your temper.” 

“ I’ve as much right to speak — if this is meant for a 
school meeting — as Kenrick or any one else; and what 
I have to say is this : — Kenrick has been merely throw- 
ing dust in your eyes, misleading you altogether about 
the true state of the case. It’s all very fine, and very 
easy for him to talk so lightly of its being ‘ a joke,’ 
and ‘ a bit of fun,’ and so on ; but I should like to ask 
him whether he believes that? and whether, he’s not 
just hunting for popularity, and mixing up with it a 
few private spites? and whether he’s not thoroughly 
ashamed of himself at this moment ? There, you may 
see that he is,” continued Henderson, pointing at him; 
“ see how he is blushing scarlet, and looking the very 
picture of degradation.” 

Here Kenrick started up, and most irascibly informed 
Henderson that he wasn’t going to sit there and be 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


251 


slanged by him, and that as he was in the chair, he 
would not let Henderson go on any more unless he cut 
short his abuse ; and while Kenrick was saying this, 
in which he entirely carried the meeting with him, 
Power again whispered, “You’re getting too personal, 
Flip ; — but go on ; only say no more about Kenrick — 
though I’m afraid it’s all true.” 

“ Well, at any rate, I will say this,” continued Hen- 
derson, whose flow of words was rather stopped by his 
having been pulled up so often ; — and I ought to know, 
for I was in the room at the time, and I appeal to 
Anthony and Franklin, and all the rest of the dormi- 
tory, to say if it isn’t true. It wasn't a joke. It wasn’t 
meant for a joke. It was a piece of deliberate, dia- 
bolical ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” began a few of Harpour’s cla- 
queurs, and the chorus was again swelled by a score 
of others. 

“ I repeat it — of deliberate, diabolical cruelty, chosen 
just because there was nothing more cruel they dared 
to do. And,” he said speaking at the top of his voice, 
to make himself heard over the clamor, “the fellows 
who did it are a disgrace to St. Winifred’s, and they 
deserve to be caned by the monitors, if any fellows 
ever did.” 

He sat down amid a storm of disapprobation, but his 
look never quailed for an instant, as he glanced stead- 
ily round, and noticed how Kenrick, though in favor 
with the multitude, and so much higher in the school, 
did not venture to meet his eye. And he was more 
than compensated for the general disfavor by feeling 
Power’s hand rest on his shoulder, and hearing him 
whisper, “That’s famous , Flip: you’re a dear, plucky 
fellow. Walter himself couldn’t have done it more 
firmly.” 

Then, Belial-like, rose Mackworth, perfectly at his 
ease, intending as much general mischief as lay in his 
power, and bent on saying as many unpleasant things 
as he could. In this, however, his benevolent views 
were materially frustrated by Henderson, who made 
his contemptuous comments in a tone sufficiently loud 


252 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


to be heard by many, and quite distinctly enough to 
disconcert Mackworth’s oratory. 

“ As the gentleman who lias just sat down has poured 
so many bottles of wrath” — “Bottles of French var- 
nish,” suggest Henderson — “ on our heads generally, I 
must be allowed to make a few remarks in reply. His 
speech consisted of nothing but rabid abuse, without a 
shred of argument.” — “Rabid fact without a shred of 
fudge,” interpolated Henderson. — “ If for every trifling 
freak fellows were to be telling the monitors, we had bet- 
ter inaugurate at once the era of sneaks and cowards.” 

“Era of sham polish and fiddlestick ends,” echoed 
Henderson ; and Mackworth, who had every intention 
of making a very flourshing speech, was so discon- 
certed by this unwonted pruning of his periods, that 
he somewhat abruptly sat down, muttering anathemas 
on Henderson, and flustered quite out of his usual 
bland manner. 

“ Something has been said about cowardice and 
sneaking,” said Whalley, getting up. “I should like 
to know whether you think it more cowardly to fight 
a fellow twice one’s size, and to mark him pretty con- 
siderably too” (a remark which Whalley unceremoni- 
ously emphasized by pointing at Harpour’s black eye), 
“or to lay a plot to frighten in the dark a mere child, 
very nervous and very timid, who has never harmed 
any one in his life?” 

Next, Howard Tracy, addressing the meeting, run- 
ning his hand occasionally through his hair, “ would 
put the question on a different footing altogether. As 
to what had been done to Eden, he stood on neutral 
ground, and gave no opinion. But who, he asked, 
were these monitors that they should thrash any one 
at all? He had never heard that they were of partic- 
ularly good families, or that they had anything what- 
ever which gave them a claim to interfere with other 
fellows. The question was, whether a parcel of moni- 
tors were to domineer over the school ? ” 

“The question was nothing of the kind,” said 
Franklin very bluntly ; “it was, whether big bullies, 
like Harpour, were to be at perfect liberty to frighten 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


253 


fellows into idiots, or beat them into mummies, at 
their own will and pleasure? That was the only 
question. Harpour or Somers — bullies or monitors — 
which will you have, boys?” 

And after this arose a perfect hubbub of voices. 
Some got up and ridiculed the monitors ; others ex- 
tolled Ilarpour, and tried to make out that he was 
misused for being called to account for a mere frolic; 
others taunted Evson and Henderson with a conspiracy 
against their private enemies. On the whole, they 
were nearly unanimous in agreeing that the school 
should prevent the monitors from any exercise of 
their authority. 

And then, in the midst of the hubbub, Power rose, 
“in act more graceful,” and there was an immediate 
and general call for silence. To the great majority of 
the boys, Power was hardly known except by name 
and by sight ; but his school successes, his rare ability, 
his stainless character, and many personal advantages, 
commanded for him the highest admiration. His 
numerous slight acquaintances in the school all liked 
his pleasant and playful courtesy, and were proud to 
know him ; his few friends entertained for him an 
almost extravagant affection. His ancient name, his 
good family, and the respect due to his high position 
in the school, would alone have been sufficient to gain 
him a favorable hearing; but, besides this, he had 
hitherto come forward so little, that there was a strong 
curiosity to see what line he would take, and how he 
would be able to speak. There were indeed a few who 
were most anxious to silence him as quickly as pos- 
sible, knowing what effect his words would be likely 
to produce ; and when he began, they raised several 
noisy interruptions ; but Kenrick, for very shame, was 
obliged at first to demand for him the attention which, 
after the first sentence or two, his quiet, conciliatory, 
and persuasive manner effectually secured. 

Reviewing the whole tumultuary discussion, he be- 
gan by answering Kenrick. After alluding to the long 
course of bullying which had been ended in this man- 
ner, he appealed to the common-sense of the meeting 


254 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


whether the thing could be regarded as a mere joke, 
when they remembered Eden’s tender age and highly 
susceptible nature? Was it not certain, and must it 
not have been obvious to the bullies, that serious, 
if not desperately dangerous results must follow? 
What those results had been was well known, and in 
describing what he had seen of them in the sick room 
only half an hour before, Power made a warm appeal 
to their feelings of pity and indignation — an appeal 
which every one felt to be manly, and which could 
not fail of being deeply touching, because it was both 
simple and natural. 

“ Then,” said Power, “ the next speaker talked 
about sneaking and cowardice. Well, those charges 
have been answered by Whalley, and, indeed, on behalf 
of his friends Evson and Henderson, lie perhaps need 
hardly condescend to answer them at all. His friend 
Henderson had been long enough among them to need 
no defence, and if he did , it would be sufficiently 
supplied by the courage of which they had just seen a 
specimen. As for Evson, any boy who had given as 
many proofs of honor and manliness as he had done 
during his two terms at St. Winifred’s, certainly 
required no one’s shield to be thrown over him. 
Would any of them show their courage by walking 
across the Razor on some dark foggy winter’s night ? 
and would they find in the school any other fellow of 
Evson’s age who would not shrink from standing up 
in a regular fair fight with another of twice his own 
strength and size ? Those charges he thought he 
might throw to the winds ; he was sure that no one 
believed them ; but there was, he admitted, one cow- 
ardice of which his two friends had often been guilty, 
and it was a cowardice for which they need not blush ; 
he meant the cowardice of being afraid not to do what 
they thought right, and of being afraid to do what 
they knew to be wrong.” 

In these remarks Power quite carried his audience 
away with him; the strain was of a higher mood than 
boys had often heard from boys, and it was delivered 
with an earnestness that raised a continuous applause. 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


255 


This, however, Power checked by going on speaking 
until he was obliged to stop and take breath ; but then 
it burst out in the most unmistakable and enthusiastic 
manner, and entirely drowned the few and timid 
counter-demonstrations of the Jones and Mackworth 
school. 

“Now I have detained you too long,” said Power, 
“ and I apologize for it (Go on ! go on ! shouted the 
boys) ; but as so many have spoken on the other side, 
and so few on this, perhaps you will excuse me (Yes, 
yes!). Well, then, Tracy has asked, ‘Who are the 
monitors ? and what right have they to interfere ? ’ 
I answer, that the monitors are our schoolfellows, and 
are simply representatives of the best form of public 
school opinion. They have all been lower boys ; they 
have all worked their way up to the foremost place; 
they are, in short, the oldest, the cleverest, the strong- 
est, and the wisest among us. And their right 
depends on an authority voluntarily given them by 
the masters, by parents, and by ourselves — a right 
founded on common-sense, and venerable by very 
many years of success. At any rate, a fellow who 
behaves as Ilarpour has done, has the least right to 
complain of this exercise of a higher authority. If he 
had a right — and he has no right except brute strength, 
if that be a right — to bully, beat, torment, and perhaps 
injure for life a poor little inoffensive boy, and by 
doing so to render the name of the school infamous, 
I maintain that the monitors, who have the interest 
of the school most at heart, who are ranged ex officio 
on the side of truth, of justice, and of honor, have 
infinitely more right to thrash him for it. Supposing 
that there were no monitors, what W'ould the state of 
the school be? above all, what would be the condition 
of the younger and weaker boys ? they would be the 
absolutely defenceless prey of a most odious tyranny. 
Let me say, then, that I most distinctly approve of 
the manner in which my friends have acted ; that I 
envy and admire the courage which helped them to 
behave as they did ; and that if the school attempts 
on this occasion to resist the exercise of the monitor’s 


256 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


power, it will suffer a disgrace. I oppose Kenrick’s 
motion with all my heart. I think it dangerous, I 
think it useless, and I think it most unjust .” 

A second burst of applause followed Power’s ener- 
getic words, and continued for several minutes. lie 
had changed the opinions of many who were present, 
and Kenrick felt his entire sympathy and admiration 
enlisted on behalf of his former friend. He would 
at the moment have given anything to get up and 
retract his previous remarks, and beg pardon for them. 
But his pride and passion were too strong for him, 
and coldly rising, he put it to the meeting, “ whether 
they decided that the monitors had the right to inter- 
fere or not.” 

Jones, Mackwortli, Harpour, and others, were eagerly 
canvassing for votes, and when Kenrick demanded 
a show of hands, a good many were raised on their 
side. When the opposite question was put, at first 
only Power, Henderson, Whalley and Franklin held 
up their hands ; but they were soon followed by Bliss, 
then by Anthony and Cradock, and then by a great 
many more who took courage when they saw what 
champions were on their side. The hands were 
counted, and there was found to be an equal number 
on both sides. The announcement was received with 
dead silence. 

“The chairman of course has a casting vote,” said 
Mackworth. 

Kenrick sat still for a moment, not without an 
inward conflict ; and then, afraid to risk his popularity 
with those whom he had now adopted as his own set, 
he said, rising — 

“ And I give it against the right of the monitors.” 

A scene of eager partisanship and loud triumph 
ensued, during which Power once more stood forward, 
and observed — 

“You must allow me to remind you that the present 
meeting in no way represents the sense of the school. 
I do not see a dozen boys present who are above the 
lowest fifth form ; and I do entreat those who have 
gained this vote not to disturb the peace and comfort 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


257 


of the school by attempting a collision between them- 
selves and the monitors, who will certainly be sup- 
ported by the nearly unanimous opinion of the upper 
fifth forms.” 

“ We shall see about that,” answered Kenrick in a 
confident tone. “ At any rate, the vote is carried.” 
lie left the chair, and the boys broke up into various 
groups, still eagerly discussing the rights and wrongs 
of the question which had been stirred. 

“ So, Power,” said Kenrick with a sneer, which he 
assumed to hide his real feelings, “ all your fine elo- 
quence is thrown away, you see. We’ve carried the 
day after all, in spite of you.” 

“ Yes, Ken,” said Power gently ; “you’ve carried it 
quocunque modo. How comes Kenrick to be on the 
same side as Jones, Mackworth, and Harpour ? ” 
l 7 



“oh, don’t, don’t, don’t frighten me.” 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

THE MONITORS. 

In the teeth of clenched antagonisms. — Tennyson. 

The meeting over, Henderson, who had not seen 
Walter since the morning, flew up to the sick-room to 
tell him the news, which he was sure would specially 
interest him. As he entered, the same spectacle was 
before him which Power had already seen — little Eden 
restless, and sometimes wandering — Walter seated 
silently by the bed watching him, his legs crossed and 
his hands clasped over one knee. The curtains were 
drawn to exclude the glare. Walter could read but 
little, for his eyes were weak after the fight ; but his 
thoughts and his nursing of his little friend kept him 
occupied. Henderson, fresh from the hot excitement 
of the meeting, was struck with the deep contrast 
presented by this painfully quiet scene. 

He was advancing eagerly, but Walter rose with his 
finger on his lip, and spoke to him in a whisper, for 
Eden had just dropped oft* to sleep. 

Henderson shook him warmly by the hand, and 
258 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


259 


whispered — “ I’ve such lots to tell you ; ” and, sitting 
down by Walter, he gave him an account of what had 
just taken place. “You should have heard Power, 
Walter ; upon my word he spoke like an orator, and 
regularly bowled the Harpour lot off their legs. It’s 
splendid to see him coming out so in the school — isn’t 
it?” 

“ It is indeed ; and thanks to you, too, Flip, for 
sticking up for me.” 

“ Oh, what I did was just nothing. But only fancy 
that fellow Kenrick fighting against us like this, 
and giving his casting vote against Harpour’s being 
thrashed! You’ve no idea, Walter, how that fellow’s 
changed.” 

He was interrupted, for Eden woke with a short 
scream, and, starting up in bed, looked round with a 
scared expression, shuddering and moaning as he fell 
back again on his pillow. 

“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t frighten me,” he said appeal- 
ingly, while the perspiration burst out over his pale 
face ; “ please, Harpour, please don’t. Oh, Walter, 
Walter, do help me.” 

“ Hush, my poor little fellow, I’m here,” said Walter 
tenderly, as he smoothed his pillow ; “ don’t be afraid, 
Arty, you’re quite safe, and I’m staying with you. 
They only put on masks to frighten you ; it was noth- 
ing but that.” 

Bending over the bed, he talked to him in a gentle, 
soothing voice, and tried to make him feel at ease, 
while the child flung both his arms round his neck, 
sobbing, and still clung tight to his hand when Walter 
had succeeded in allaying the sudden paroxysm of 
terror. 

Henderson, deeply touched, had looked on with 
glistening eyes. “How kind you are, Walter,” he 
said, taking his other hand, and affectionately pressing 
it. “ I should just like to have Kenrick here, and 
show him what his new friends have done.” 

“ Don’t be indignant against him, Flip. I wish, in- 
deed, he would but come into this room, and make it 
up with us, and be what he once was. But he did not 


260 


ST. WINIFRED ' 1 S. 


even take the slightest notice of the letter I wrote him, 
entreating him to overlook any fault I had been guilty 
of, however unconsciously. I never meant to wrong 
him, and I love him as much as ever.” 

“Love him!” said Henderson; “/ don’t; his new 
line isn’t half to my fancy. He must be jolly miser- 
able — that’s one comfort.” 

“ Hush ! he was our friend, Flip, remember ; indeed, 
I feel as a friend to him still, whatever his feelings are 
for me. But why do you think he must be miser- 
able ? ” 

“ Because you can see in his face and manner that 
all the while he knows lie’s in the wrong, and is thor- 
oughly ashamed at bottom.” 

“ Well, let’s hope he’ll come round again all the 
sooner. Have you broken with him, then ?” 

“Well, nearly. We are barely civil to each other — 
that’s all, and I don’t suppose we shall be even that 
now; for I pitched into him to-day at the meeting.” 

Walter only sighed, and just then Power stole into 
the room. 

“Hallo!” he said, “Flip, I believe you and I shall 
kill the invalids between us. I just met Dr. Keith on 
the stairs, and he only gave me leave to come for five 
minutes, for he says they both need quiet. You, I 
suspect, Master Flip, took French leave.” 

“ I like that,” said Henderson, laughing, “ consider- 
ing that this is your second visit, and only my first. 
I’ve been telling Walter about the meeting.” 

“The credit — if there be any — is yours, Flip; you 
broke the ice, and showed the Harpourites that they 
weren’t going to carry it all their own way, as they 
fancied.” 

“I’m so glad you came out strong, Power,” said 
Walter; “Flip says you took them all by storm.” 

“ That’s Flip’s humbug,” said Power ; “ but,” he 
whispered, “ if I did any good, it’s all through you, 
Walter.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“ Why, first of all, I wasn’t going to hear animals 
like Mackwortli abuse you ; and next, but for you 1 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


261 


should have continued my old selfish way of keeping 
aloof from all school concerns. It cost me an effort to 
conquer my shyness, but I remembered our old talk 
on Appenfell, Walter.” 

Walter smiled gratefully, and Power continued, 
“ But Fve come to tell you both a bit of news.” 

“ What’s that ? ” they asked eagerly. 

“ Why, there’s a notice on the board, signed by 
Somers, to say that ‘ All the school are requested to 
stay in their places after the master has left the room 
at two o’clock calling-over.’ ” 

“ Whew ! what a row we shall have ! ” said Hender- 
son. 

“ flow I wish I were well enough to be out now,” 
said Walter. “I hate to be shut up while all this is 
going on.” 

“ Poor fellow, with that face ? ” said Power. “ No ; 
you must be content to wait and get well.” 

“ It isn’t the face that keeps me in, Power ; it’s the 
bang on the head, Keith says.” 

“ Yes ; and Keith says that he doesn’t know when 
you will be well if these young chatterboxes stay with 
you,” said the good-humored doctor, entering at the 
moment. “Vanish, both of you ! ” 

The boys smiled and bade Walter good-bye, as they 
wished him speedy relief from Dr. Keith’s prison. 
“And when do you think poor little Eden may come 
and sit in my study again ? ” asked Power. “ I miss 
him very much.” 

“You mustn’t think of that for a longtime,” answered 
the doctor. 

“ How about this two o’clock affair ? ” said Hender- 
son, as they left the room. 

“ Upon my word I don’t know. Sit next to me, Flip, 
in case of a row.” 

“Are the monitors strong enough, do you think ?” 

“We shall see.” 

The school was in a fever of excitement and curiosity. 
At dinner-time nothing else was talked of by the lower 
boys, but the upper forms kept a dignified silence. 

Two o’clock came. The names of all the school were 


262 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


called over, and amid perfect silence the master of the 
week left the hall. Then Somers stood up on the dais 
and said — 

“ Is Harpour here ? — the rest please to keep their 
places.” 

“ I’m here — what do you want of me f ” said Harpour 
sulkily, as he stood up in his place. 

“ First of all, I want to tell you before the whole 
school that you have been behaving in a most shame- 
fully cruel and blackguard way, and in a way that has 
produced disastrous consequences to one of the little 
fellows. A big fellow like you ought to be thoroughly 
ashamed of such conduct. If you were capable of a 
blush you ought to blush for it. It is our duty as 
monitors, and my duty as head of the school, to punish 
you for this conduct, as Dr. Lane has left it in our hands ; 
and I am going to cane you for it. Stand out.” 

“I won’t. I’ll see you d d first.” 

A sensation ran through the school at this open 
defiance ; but Somers, quite unmoved, repeated — 

“I take no notice of your words further than to tell 
you that if you swear again you shall have an additional 
punishment ; but once again I tell you to stand out.” 

Harpour quailed a little at his firm tone, and at the 
total absence of all support from his followers ; but he 
again flatly refused to stand out. 

“Very well,” said Somers; “you have already defied 
the authority of one monitor, and that is an aggrava- 
tion of your original offence. I should have been glad 
to have avoided a scene, but if your common-sense 
doesn’t make you bear your punishment coolly, you 
shall bear it by force. Will you standout? — no? — 
then you shall be made. Fetch him here, some one,” 
he said, turning to the sixth form. 

The second monitor, Danvers, quietly seized Har- 
pour’s right arm, and Macon, one of the biggest fellows 
in the fifth form, of his own accord got up and seized 
the other. Harpour’s heart sank at this, for Danvers 
and the other were with him in the cricket eleven, and 
he was not as strong as either of them singly. 

“Now mark,” said Somers; “caned you shall be, to 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


263 



redeem the character of the school ; but unless you take 
it without being made to take it, your name shall also 
be immediately struck off the school list, and you shall 
leave St. Winifred’s this evening. You’ll be no great 


loss, I take it. So much I may tell you as a proof that 
the head-master has left us to vindicate the name of 
St. Winifred’s. 

Seeing that resistance was useless, Harpour accord- 
ingly stood out in the centre of the room, but not until 
he had cast an inquiring look among those who em- 
braced his side ; and these, who, as we have seen, were 
tolerably numerous, all looked at Kenrick that he 
might give some hint as to what they should do. Thus 
appealed to, Kenrick rose and said — 

“I protest against this caning.” 

“ You ! ” said Somers, turning contemptuously in that 
direction ; “ who are you ? ” 

The general titter which these words caused made 
Kenrick furious, and he cried out angrily — 

“ It is against the opinion of the majority of the 
school.” 

“We shall see,” said Somers, with stinging sang- 
froid; “ meanwhile, you may sit down, and let the 


264 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


majority of the school speak for themselves ; otherwise 
you may be requested to occupy a still more prominent 
position. I shall have something to say to you pres- 
ently.” 

“ Let’s rescue him,” said Kenrick, springing forward, 
and several fellows stirred in answer to the appeal ; 
but Macon, seizing hold of Tracy with one arm, and 
Mackworth with the other, thrust them both down on 
the floor, and Danvers, catching hold of Kenrick, swung 
him over the form and pinned him there. The general 
laugh with which this proceeding was received showed 
that only a small handful of the school were really op- 
posed to the monitors, and that most boys thoroughly 
concurred with them, and held them to be in the right. 
So Macon quietly boxed Jones’s ears, since Jones was 
making a noise, and then told him and the others that 
they might return to their places. 

Crimsoned all over with shame and anger, Kenrick 
sat down, and Somers proceeded to administer to Har- 
pour a most severe caning. That worthy quite meant 
to stretch to the utmost his powers of endurance, and 
made several scornful remarks after each of the first 
blows. But Somers had no intention to let him off too 
easily ; each sneer was followed by a harder cut, and 
the remarks were very soon followed by a silent but 
significant wince. It was not until a writhe had been 
succeeded by a sob, and a sob by a howl, that Somers 
said to him — 

“ Now you may go.” 

And Harpour did go to his seat, in an agony of 
mingled pain and shame. He had boasted repeatedly 
that he would never take a thrashing from any one; 
but he had taken it, and succumbed to it, and that too 
in the presence of the whole school. He was tremend- 
ously ashamed; he never forgot the scene, and deter- 
mined never to lose an opportunity of revenging it. 

The school felt it to be an act of simple justice, and 
that the punishment was richly deserved. They looked 
on in stern silence, and those lower boys who had in 
the morning determined to interfere, gazed with some 
discomfiture upon their champion’s fall. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


265 


“ And now, Master Kenrick, you stand here ; — what, 
no ! — Stand here, sir ! ” 

Kenrick only glared defiance. 

“ Danvers, hand him here ; ” but Danvers stepped 
up to Somers and whispered, “ Don’t be too sharp on 
him, Somers, or you’ll drive him to despair. Remein- 
her lie’s high in the fifth, and has been a distinguished 
fellow. Don’t make too much of this one esca- 
pade.” 

“ All right. Thanks, Danvers,” said Somers ; and 
added aloud, in a less sarcastic tone — “ Come here, 
Kenrick ; I merely wish to speak a word with you ; ” 
and then Danvers kindly but firmly took the boy’s 
arm, and led him forward. 

“You said the majority of the school denied our 
right to interfere ? ” 

No answer. 

“ Do you consider yourself in person to be the ma- 
jority of the school, pray ? ” 

No answer. 

“We are all perfectly aware, sir, of your meeting, 
and of your precious casting vote. But you must be in- 
formed that a rabble of shell and fourth-form boys do 
not constitute the school in any sense of the word. 
And understand too that, even if the majority of the 
school had been against us, we monitors are not quite 
so ignorant of our duty as to make that any reason 
for letting a brutal and cowardly act of bullying go 
unpunished. You have been very silly, Kenrick, and 
have been just misled by conceit. Yes, you may look 
angry ; but you know me of old ; you’ve never received 
anything but kindness at my hands since the day you 
were my fag, and I tell you again that you’ve just been 
misled by conceit. Think rather less of yourself, my 
good fellow. You ought to have known better. Your 
friend Power has shown you an infinitely more sensible 
example. You may sit down, sir, with this warning; 
and, in the name of the monitors, I beg to thank the 
other fellows, especially Evson and Henderson, who 
did their best to protect little Eden. They behaved 
like thorough gentlemen, and it would be well if 


266 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


more of you younger boys were equally alive to the 
true honor of the school.” 

“ I wish he would be more conciliatory,” whispered 
Dimock to Danvers ; “ he’s plucky and firm, but so 
very dictatorial and unpersuasive. Besides, he’s for- 
gotten to thank Power.” 

“ Yes,” said Danvers, “ his tone spoils all. Somers,” 
he said, “ you’ve omitted to mention Power, and the 
fellows will be gone in a minute.” 

“ I’ve been talking so much, you say it.” 

“ Not I; I’m no speaker. — Here, Dimock will.” 

“ Ay, that’ll do. One minute more, please,” called 
Somers, raising his hand to the boys, who, during this 
rapidly-whispered conversation, were beginning to leave 
their places. 

“Somers wishes me to add,” said Dimock, “that 
all the monitors and many of the sixth and fifth forms 
wish to express our best thanks to Power for the 
honorable and fearless way in which he this morning 
maintained the rights and duties which belong to us. 
You younger fellows know very well that we moni- 
tors extremely dislike to interfere, that we do so only 
on the rarest occasions, and that we are always most 
anxious to avoid caning. You know that we never 
resort to it unless we are obliged to do so by the most 
flagrant offences, which would otherwise sap the honor 
and character of the school. Let us all be united 
and work together for the good of St. Winifred’s. 
Don’t let any interested fellows lead you to believe that 
we either do or wish to tyrannize. Our authority is 
for your advantage; — I appeal to you whether you 
do not know it.” 

“ Yes, yes, Dimock,” answered many voices ; and 
before they streamed out of the hall, they gave “ three 
cheers for the monitors,” which were so heartily re- 
sponded to, that the hissing of Harpour, Kenrick, and 
others only raised a laugh, which filled to the very brim 
the bitter cup of hate and indignation which Kenrick 
had been forced that day to drink. To be addressed 
like that before the whole school — snubbed, reproved, 
threatened— it was intolerable ; that he, Kenrick, high 


ST. WINIFRED'S, 


267 


in the school, brilliant, promising, successful, accus- 
tomed only to flattery and praise, should be publicly set 
down among a rabble of lower boys — it made him mad 
to think of it. 

“A nice tell-tale mess you’ve made of this business, 
Power,” he said savagely, the red spot still lingering 
on his cheek, as he confronted his former friend ; “I 
hope you’re ashamed of yourself.” 

“ I, Ken ? no.” 

“ Then you ought to be.” 

“ Honestly, Ken, who ought to be most ashamed — 
you, the advocate of Harpour and his set, or 1, who 
merely defended my best friend for behaving most 
honorably — as he always does ? ” 

“ Always ! ” sneered Kenrick. 

Power turned on him his clear bright eye, and said 
nothing for a moment; but then he laid his arm 
across his shoulder in the old familiar manner, and 
said, “ You are not happy now, Ken, as you used to be.” 

“ Why the devil not ? ” 

Power shook his head. “ Because your heart is no- 
bler than your acts ; your nature truer than your con- 
duct; and that is and will be your punishment. Why 
do you nurse this bad feeling till it has so mastered 
you? ” 

Kenrick stood still, his cheeks flushed, his eyes down- 
cast ; and Power, as he turned away, sadly repeated, 
half to himself, the wonderful verse — 

“ Yirtutem videant, intabescantque relicta.” 

Kenrick understood it ; it came to his heart like an 
arrow, and rankled there ; it made a wound, the faith- 
ful wound of a friend, better than the kisses of an 
enemy ; — but the time of healing was far off yet. 



WALTER AND EDEN ON THE BEACH, 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. 


FALLING AWAY. 


Oh deeper dole ! 

That so august a spirit, sphered so fair, 

Should from the starry sessions of his peers, 

Decline to quench so bright a brilliancy 
In hell’s sick spume. Ay me, the deeper dole .! 

Tannhauser. 

It was generally on Sunday that boys walked in the 
Croft with those who were, and whom they wished to 
be considered as, their most intimate and confidential 
friends. To one who knew anything of the boys’ 
characters, it was most curious and suggestive to 
observe the groups into which they spontaneously 
formed themselves. The sets at St. Winifred’s were 
not very exclusive or very accurately defined ; and one 
boy might, by virtue of different sympathies or accom- 
plishments, belong to two or three sets at once. Still 
there were some sets whose outermost circles barely 
touched each other; and hitherto the friends among 
268 


SI. WINIFRED'S 


269 


whom Ken rick had chiefly moved would never have 
associated intimately with the fellows among whom 
Harpour was considered as the leading spirit. 

It was therefore with no little surprise that Mr. Per- 
cival, who with Mr. Paton passed through the Croft 
on his Sunday stroll, observed Kenrick — not with his 
former companions, Power or Walter or Whalley — but 
arm in arm with Harpour and Tracy, and accompanied 
by one or two other boys of similar character. It im- 
mediately explained to him much that had taken place. 
He had heard vague rumors of the part Kenrick had 
taken at the meeting ; he had heard both from him and 
from Walter that they were no longer on good terms 
with each other ; but now it was further plain to him 
that Kenrick was breaking loose from all his old moor- 
ings, and sailing into the open sea of wilfulness and 
pride. 

“What are you so much interested about?” asked 
Mr. Paton, as his colleague followed the boys with his 
glance. 

“ I am wondering how and why this change has come 
over Kenrick.” 

“ What change?” 

“Don’t you see with whom he is walking? Oh, I 
forgot that you never notice that kind of outer life 
among the boys; on the other hand, I always do; it 
helps me to understand these fellows, and do more for 
them than I otherwise could.” 

“You observe them to some purpose, Percival, at 
any rate, for your influence among them is wonderful 
— as I have occasion to discover every now and then.” 

“But Kenrick puzzles me. Nemo repente fuit tur- 
pissimus , one used to think ; yet that boy has dropped 
from the society of such a noble fellow as Power, plumb 
into the abyss of intimacy with Harpour ! There must 
be something all wrong.” 

A very little observation showed Mr. Percival that 
his conjectures about Kenrick were correct. Clever as 
he was, his work deteriorated rapidly ; the whole ex- 
pression of his countenance changed for the worse; 
he was implicated more than once in very questionable 


270 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


transactions ; he lost caste among the best and most 
honorable fellows, and proportionately gained influ- 
ence among the worst and lowest lot in the school, 
whose idol and hero he gradually became. Ills descent 
was sudden, because his character had always been 
unstable. The pride and passion which were mollified 
and restrained as long as he had moved with wise and 
upright companions, broke forth with violence when 
once he fancied himself slighted, and had committed 
himself to a course which he well knew to be wrong. 
There was one who conjectured much of this at a very 
early period. It was Kenriek’s mother; his letters 
always indicated the exact state of his thoughts and 
feelings; and Mrs. Kenrick knew that the coldness 
and recklessness which had lately marked them were 
proofs that her boy was going wrong. The violence, 
too, with which he spoke of Evson, and the indications 
that he had dropped his old friends and taken up with 
new and worse companions, filled her mind with anx- 
iety and distress ; yet what could she do, poor lady, in 
her lonely home ? There was one thing only that she 
could do for him in her weakness ; and those outpour- 
ings of sorrowful and earnest prayer were not in 
vain. 

Mr. Percival tried to make some effort to save Ken- 
rick from the wrong courses which he had adopted; 
he asked him quietly to come and have a talk with him 
after dinner; but the interview only made matters 
worse. Kenrick, not unelated by his popularity among 
the lower forms as a champion of the supposed 
“rights ” of the school, chose to adopt an independent 
and almost patronizing tone towards his tutor ; he en- 
tered in a jaunty manner, and glancing carelessly over 
the table, declined to take any of the fruit to which 
the master invited him to help himself. He deter- 
mined to he as uncommunicative as possible ; avoided 
all conversation, and answered Mr. Percival’s questions 
on all subjects by monosyllables, uttered in a disre- 
spectful and nonchalant tone. Yet all the while he 
despised himself, and was ill at ease. He knew the 
deep kindness of the master’s intentions, and felt that 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


271 


he ought to be grateful for the interest shown towards 
him ; but it required a stronger power and a different 
method from his own, to exorcise from his heart the 
devil of self-will ; and besides this, it cannot be denied 
that in the first bloom and novelty of sin, in the free 
exercise of an insolent liberty, there is a sense of pleas- 
ure for many hearts ; it is the honey on the rim of the 
poison-cup, the bloom on the Dead Sea apple, the 
mirage on the scorching waste. 

Mr. Percival understood him thoroughly, and saw 
that he must be left to the bitter teachings of experi- 
ence. Always fond of Kenrick, he had never been 
blind to his many faults of character, and was particu- 
larly displeased with his present manner, which he 
knew to be only adopted on purpose to baffle any ap- 
proach to advice or warning. 

“ Good-morning, Kenrick,” he said, rising rather 
abruptly, while a slight smile of pity rested on his 
lips. 

“ Good-morning, sir,” said Kenrick; and as he rose 
in an airy manner to leave the room, Mr. Percival put 
a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders, and looked him 
steadily in the face. Kenrick tried to meet the look, 
not with the old open gaze of frank and innocent con- 
fidence, but with an expression half shrinking, half de- 
fiant. His eyes fell immediately, and satisfied by this 
perusal of his features that Kenrick was going wrong, 
Mr. Percival said only this : — 


“ Your face, my boy, is as a book where men 
Jffay read strange matters.” 

Kenrick had tried to be off-hand and patronizing in 
manner, but the attempt had failed egregiously, and 
he felt very uncomfortable as he left tbe room where 
he had so often met with kindness, and which he never 
entered on the same terms again. 

Meanwhile our two invalids, Walter and Eden, re- 
covered but slowly. But for the kindness of every one 
about them their hours would have passed very wearily 


272 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


in the sick-room. Their tedium was enlivened by con- 
stant visits from Henderson and Power, who never 
failed to interest Walter by their school news, and es- 
pecially by telling of those numerous little incidents 
which tended to show that although after the late ex- 
citements there was a certain detumescence, still the 
general effect had been to arouse a spirit of opposi- 
tion to all constituted authority. Kenrick’s name was 
sometimes on their lips, but as they could not speak 
of him favorably, and as the subject was a painful one, 
they rarely talked much about him. 

Among other visitors was Hr. Lane, who, as well as 
Mrs. Lane, showed great solicitude about them. The 
Doctor, who had been told by Dr. Keith that, but for 
Walter’s tender nursing, Eden’s case might have as- 
sumed a far more dangerous complexion, lent them in- 
teresting books and pictures, and often came for a few 
minutes to exchange some kind words with them. 
Mrs. Lane asked them to the Lodge, read to them, 
sang to them, played chess and draughts with them, 
and often gave them drives in her carriage. These 
little gracious acts of simple kindness won the 
hearts of both the boys, and hastened their convales- 
cence. 

Sometimes Walter was allowed to take Eden for a 
stroll on the shore during school hours, when there 
was no danger of their being excited or interrupted by 
the boisterous society of other boys. There was one 
favorite spot where the two often sat reading and talk- 
ing. It was by the mouth of the little river — a green 
knoll sheltered under the rising hills, to the very feet 
of which the little waves came rippling musically as 
the summer tide flowed in. And here Eden would lie 
down at full length on the soft grass, and doze quietly, 
while the gentle breeze lifted his fair hair from his fore- 
head with refreshful coolness ; or he would listen while 
Walter read to him some stirring ballad or pleasant 
tale. 

And thus in the course of a fortnight Walter was 
himself again, and Eden, not long after, was so far re- 
covered as to be allowed to join his schoolfellows in 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


27 a 


the usual routine. He was, however, removed with 
Walter, and Henderson, and Power, to another dormi- 
tory, which they had to themselves ; and the promise 
of this, relieving his mind from a constant source of 
dread, helped him to recover. The boys, too, conscious 
how great a wrong had been done to him, received 
him back among them with unusual consideration and 
delicate kindness. They pitied him heartily. It was 
impossible not to do so when they looked at his wan, 
sacl face, so changed in expression ; and when they ob- 
served his timid, shrinking manner, and the tremor 
which came over him at any sudden sight or sound. 
So every voice was softened when they spoke to him, 
and the manner of even the roughest boys became to 
him affectionate and even caressing. If any had felt 
inclined to side with Harpour against the monitors 
before, the sight of Eden went very far to alter their 
convictions. 

Yet the poor child was never happy except when 
he was in Walter’s society, and in Power’s study. 
Even there he was changed. The bright merry laugh 
which once rang out incessantly was rarely or never 
heard now; and a somewhat sad smile was all that 
could be elicited from him. He seemed, too, to have 
lost for a time all his old interest in work. The form 
competition had no further attraction for him ; the work 
seemed irksome, and he had no spirits to join in any 
game. Once Power kindly rallied him on his general 
listlessness, but Eden only looked up at him appeal- 
ingly, and said, while the weak tears overflowed his 
eyes, “ Don’t be angry with me, Power ; I can’t help 
it; I don’t feel quite right yet. O Power; I’m afraid 
you’ll never like me again as you did.” 

“ Why, Arty, your illness is all the more reason 
why I should.” 

“ But, Power, I shall never be the same as I once 
was. It seems as if some light had gone out and left 
me in the dark.” 

“Nonsense, Arty; the summer holidays will bring 
you round again.” 

But Eden only shook his head, and muttered some- 


274 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


thing about Colonel Braemar not being kind to him 
and his little sister. 

“ Do you think they would let you come and stay 
part of the holidays with us?” 

Eden brightened up in a moment, and promised to 
write and ask. 



ST. ] VINIFR ED'' S. 


275 


CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. 

Walter’s holidays. 

Such delights 

As float to earth, permitted visitants, 

When in some hour of solemn jubilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
Wide open. — Coleridge, Religious Musings. 

In scenes like these, part sunshine and part storm, the 
half-year rolled round, and brought the long-desired 
summer-holidays. Once more the end of the half- 
year saw Power as usual brilliantly successful, and 
Walter again at the head of his form. Henderson, 
too, although he could not proceed with Walter, pari 
passu , was among the first six, and had gained more 
than one school distinction. But Kenrick this time 
had failed as he had never done before; he was but 
fourth in his form, and although this was the natural 
fruit of his recent idleness, it caused him cruel morti- 
fication. 

The end of term did not pass off quite so smoothly 
and pleasantly as it generally did. The opposition 
to monitorial authority which Harpour had commenced, 
and Kenrick abetted, did not die away at once ; it 
left a large amount of angry feeling in the minds of 
numerous boys who had, each of them, influence in 
their several ways. Kenrick himself always went to 
the verge of impertinence whenever he could possibly 
do so in dealing with any of the sixth, and to Somers 
his manner was always intentionally rude, although he 
just managed to steer clear of any overt insubordina- 
tion. He could of course act thus without the risk of 
incurring any punishment, and without coming to any 
positive collision. Many boys were unfortunately but 
too ready to imitate his example. 


276 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


These dissensions did not positively break out on 
the prize day, but they made the proceedings far less 
pleasant and unanimous than they would have been. 
The cheers usually given to the head of the school 
were purposely omitted, from the fear of provoking 
any counter-demonstration, and there remained an un- 
easy feeling in many minds. The success of the concert 
which was yearly given by the school choir after the 
distribution of prizes was also marred by traces of the 
same dissension. In this concert Walter had a solo to 
sing, and although he sang it remarkably well in his 
sweet ringing voice, he was vexed to hear a few decided 
hisses among the plaudits which greeted him. Alto- 
gether the prize-day — a great day at St. Winifred’s — 
was less successful than it had ever been known to be. 

It brought, however, one pleasure to Walter, in the 
acquaintance of Sir Lawrence and Lady Power, who 
had heard of him so often in their son’s letters, that 
they begged to be introduced to him as soon as they 
arrived. He was a great deal with them during the 
day, and he helped Power to show them all that was 
interesting about the school and its environs. They 
saw Eden too, and Lady Power kindly pressed her in- 
vitation on Mrs. Braemar, who was also present, and 
who was not sorry that Arty could stay with a family 
so well connected, and of such high position. When 
Walter left them, Power earnestly asked his mother 
what she thought of his friend ? 

“He is the most charming boy I ever saw,” said 
Lady Power, “and I rejoice that you have chosen him 
as a friend. But you don’t tell me anything about 
Ken rick, of whom you were once so fond ; how is that ? ” 

“I am still fond of him, mother, but he has changed 
a good deal lately.” At that moment Ken rick passed 
by arm in arm with Harpour, as though to confirm 
Power’s words, and recognized him with an ostenta- 
tiously careless nod. 

It was thus that Walter’s first year at St. Winifred’s 
ended; and in spite of all drawbacks he felt that it 
had been a distinguished and happy year. He was 
now yearning for home, and he felt that he could meet 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


277 


his dear ones with honest pride. He made arrange- 
ments to correspond with Henderson and Eden in the 
holidays, and Power promised again to visit him at 
Semlyn, on condition that he would come back with 
him and spend a week at Severn Park, that so there 
might be a double bond of union between them. 

Very early the next morning the boys were swarming 
into coaches, carriages, brakes, and every conceivable 
vehicle which could by any possibility convey them to 
the nearest station. A hearty cheer accompanied each 
coach as it rolled off with its heavy and excited freight ; 
by nine o’clock not a boy was left behind. The great 
buildings of St. Winifred’s were still as death ; the 
footfall of the chance passer-by echoed desolately 
among them. A strange, mournful, conscious silence 
hung about the old monastic pile. The young life 
which usually played like the sunshine over it was 
pouring unwonted brightness into many happy English 
homes. 

It was late in the afternoon when Walter found 
himself on the top of the hill which looks down over 
Semlyn Lake. The water lay beneath him a sheet of 
placid silver ; the flowers were scattered on every side 
in their beds of emerald and sunlit moss; the air, just 
stirred by the light breeze, was rich and balmy with 
the ambrosial scent of the summer groves ; and high 
overhead the old familiar hills reared their magnificent 
summits into the deep unclouded blue. But Walter’s 
bright eye was fixed on one spot only of the enchant- 
ing scene — the spot where the gables of his father’s 
house rose picturesquely on the slope above the lake, 
and where a little bay in the sea of dark green firs 
gave him a glimpse of their garden, in which he could 
discover the figures of his brothers and sisters at their 
play. A sense of unspoken, unspeakable happiness 
flowed into the boy’s warm heart, and if at the same 
moment his eyes were suffused with tears, they were 
the tears that always spring up when the fountain of 
the heart is stirred by any strong emotion to its inmost 
depths — the tears that come even in laughter to show 
that our very pleasures have their own alloy. 


278 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


The coach was still behind him, toiling slowly up 
the ascent. Leaving it to convey his luggage to the 
house, he plunged down a green winding path, ankle- 
deep in soft grasses and innumerable flowers, which 
led to his home by a short cut down the valley, along 
the burn-side, and under the waving woods. That 
sweet woodland path, cool and fragrant on the most 
burning summer-day, where he had often gathered the 
little red ripe wild strawberries that peeped out here 
and there from between the scented spikes of golden 
agrimony, and under the white graceful flowers, of the 
circoea, was familiar and dear to him from the earliest 
childhood. He plunged into it with delight, and 
springing along with joyous steps, reached in ten 
minutes the wicket-gate which led into his father’s 
grounds. The first thing to see and recognize him 
was a pet fawn of his sister’s, which at his whistle 
came trotting to him with delight, jingling the little 
silver bell which was tied by a blue ribbon round its 
neck. Barely stopping to caress the beautiful little 
creature’s head, he bounded through the orchard into 
the garden, and the next instant the delighted shout 
of his brothers and sisters welcomed him back, as they 
ran up, with all the glee of innocent and happy child- 
hood, to greet him with their repeated kisses. 

“ Ah, there are father and mother,” he cried, break- 
ing away from the laughing group, as his mother ad- 
vanced with open arms to meet him, and pressed him 
to her heart in a long embrace. 

“ I’m first in my form, father,” he said, looking joy- 
ously up into his father’s face. “ Head remove again.” 

“ Are you, Walter? I am so happy to hear it. Few 
things could give me more pleasure.” 

“But that’s nothing to being at home” he said, 
shouting aloud in the uncontrolled exuberance of his 
spirits, and hardly knowing which way to turn in the 
multiplicity of objects which seemed to claim his in- 
stant attention. 

“ Do come the rounds with me, Charlie,” he said to 
his favorite brother, “and let me see all the dear old 
places again. We shall be back in a few minutes.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


279 


“And then, I daresay, you’ll be glad of some tea,” 
said his mother. 

“ Rather /” said Walter; “let’s have it out here on 
the lawn, mother.” 

The proposal was carried by acclamation, and very 
soon the table was laid under the witch elm before the 
house, while Walter’s little sisters had heaped up 
several dishes with freshly-plucked fruit, laid in the 
midst of flowers and vine leaves, and Walter, his face 
beaming and his eyes dancing with happiness, was 
asking and answering a thousand incessant questions, 
while yet he managed to enjoy very thoroughly a 
large bunch of grapes, and an immense plate of straw- 
berries and cream. 

And when tea was over they still sat out in the 
lovely garden until the witch elm had ceased to checker 
their faces with its rain of flickering light ; and until 
the lake had paled from pure gold to rose-color, and 
from rose-color to dull crimson, and from dull crimson 
to silver gray, and rippled again from silver gray into 
a deep black blue, relieved by a thousand flashing 
edges of molten silver and quivering gold, under the 
crescent moon and the innumerable stars. And the 
bats had almost ceased to wheel, and in the moist air 
of early night the flowers were diffusing their luscious 
sweetness, and the nightingale was flooding the grove 
with her unimaginable rapture, and the eager talk had 
hushed itself into a delicious calm of happy silence, 
before they moved. It was a beautiful picture ; — the 
father ancl mother still youthful enough to enjoy life 
to the full, happy at heart, and proud of their eldest 
boy; his two young brothers looking up to him with 
such eager hope and love ; the little sisters with their 
arms twined round his neck, and their fair hair falling 
over his shoulders ; the mirthful, fearless, happy boy 
himself ; — a family circle unseparated by distance, un- 
shadowed by sorrow, unbroken by death, seated in 
this exquisite scene on the lawn of their own happy 
English home. 

Thrice happy ! yes, in spite of sin and sorrow, and 
retribution and remorse, there are hours when the cup 


280 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


sparkles in our hands, filled to the brim ; not (as often) 
with earthly waters ; not with the intoxicating wine 
that flames in the magic bowl of pleasure ; not with 
the red and ragged lees of wrath and satiety ; but with 
the crystal rivers of the water of life itself. There 
are such hours ; at any rate for some. Whether they 
come to all mankind I know not ; whether the squalid 
Andaman or the hideous Fuegian ever feel them I 
know not; nay, I know not whether they ever come, 
whether they ever can come, to the wretched outcasts 
of earth’s abject poverty and fathomless degradation ; 
whether they ever come, whether they ever can come, 
to the cruel and the proud, to the malicious and the 
mean, to the cynical and discontented ; yet, if they 
come not to these, God help them ! for they are the 
surest pledges of our immortality ; and to the young 
and innocent — ay, and even to the young and guilty — 
they do sometimes come ; — these hours of absorbing 
limitless enjoyment : these glimpses of dimly-remem- 
bered paradise; these odors snatched from a primal 
Eden, from a golden age when justice still lived upon 
the earth, and crime was as yet unknown. There are 
such hours, and for this English family this hour was 
one of them. 

Thrice happy Walter! and almost like a dream of 
happiness these holidays at home — and tit such a home 
— flew by. Every day and hour was a change from 
pleasure to pleasure; among the hills, in the boat on 
the sunlit lake, plunging for his cool morning swim in 
the fresh waters, cricketing, riding, fishing, walking 
with his father and mother and brothers, sitting and 
talking at the cool nightfall in the moonlit garden, 
Walter was as happy as the day was long. And when 
Power came to spend a week with them, again charm- 
ing every one whom he saw with his cheerful unself- 
ishness and engaging manners, and himself charmed 
beyond expression with all he saw at Walter’s home, 
they agreed that nothing was wanting to make their 
happiness “ an entire and perfect chrysolite.” 

Power, we have seen, was something of a young poet, 
and on the day he left Semlyn with Walter, who was 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


281 


to accompany him home, he sat a long time silent in 
the train, and then tore out a leaf of his pocket-book, 
on which he had scribbled the following lines on 

SEMLYN LAKE. 

If earthly homes can shine so fair 
With sky and wave so purely blue, 

Beneath the balmy purple air, 

If hills can don so rich a hue ; 

If fancy fails to paint a scene 
In Eden’s soft and floral glades, 

Where azure clear and golden green 
More sweetly blend with silver shades ; 

If marked and flecked with sinful stains, 

Earth hath not lost her power to bless, 

But still, beneath the cloud, remains 
So steeped in perfect loveliness ; 

Merged, as we are, in doubt and fear, 

Yet, when we yearn for realms of bliss, 

We scarce can dream, while lingering here, 

Of any fairer heaven than this. 

Poor verses, and showing too delicate a sensibility 
to be healthy in any boy ; yet dear to me and dear to 
Walter for Power’s sake, and because they show the 
strange charm which Semlyn has for those who have 
the gift of appreciating those natural treasures with 
which earth plentifully fills her lap. 



HARPOUR, MACKWORTH, JONES AND TRACY. 


CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. 

OLD AND NEW FACES. 

Pudorem, amicitiam, pudicitiam, divina atque humana pro- 
miscua, nihil pensi neque moderati habere. — Sallust. 

And now, gentle or ungentle reader, we must im- 
agine that two whole years have passed since the con- 
clusion of those summer holidays, before we again 
meet our friends of St. Winifred’s. 

The two years — as what years are not? — have been 
full of change. Walk across the court with me, and 
let us discover what we can about the present state of 
things. 

The first we meet are Walter and Power — taller and 
manlier-looking than they were, but otherwise little 
changed in appearance. Walter, with his dark hair 
and blue eyes, his graceful figure and open face, is still 
the handsome, attractive-looking boy we used to see. 
Power, too, has the same thoughtful look, the same 
refined features, the same clear eyes, which we recog- 
nize at once as the index of a beautiful and unstained 
soul. 

Neither of these boys has failed in the promise of 
282 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


283 


their earlier days^and the warm friendship with which 
they regarded each other has done much to bring about 
this result. Each in his own way has rejoiced in his 
youth, has passed an innocent and happy boyhood, 
stored with pleasant reminiscences for after days. 
Each is filled with high hopes and manly principles. 
Each has acquired good habits and that fine self-con- 
trol which has taught them — 

Rapt in reverential awe, 

To sit, self-governed in the fiery prime 
Of youth, obedient at the feet of law. 

They have enjoyed the gifts of early years without 
squandering them in wasteful profusion; they have 
felt and known that the purest pleasures were also the 
sweetest and the most permanent. Their minds are 
well cultivated, their bodies are in vigorous health, 
their hearts are glowing with generous impulse and 
warm enthusiasm ; and if sorrow should ever darken 
their after years, it can never drive them to despair, for 
they have wandered in the pleasant paths of wisdom, 
they have drunk the pure cup of innocence, they will 
carry out of the torrid zone of youth clear consciences, 
unreiuorseful memories, and unpolluted minds. 

Who is this who saunters across the playground, 
talking in loud, self-confident tones with two or three 
fellows round him, his hands in his pockets, his air 
haughty and nonchalant, and his cap a little on one 
side ? He is still pleasant-looking, his face still shows 
the capabilities for good and great things, but we are 
obliged to say of him 

Quantum mutatus ab illo 
Hectore ! 

Yes, Kenrick — for it is he — is altered for the worse. 
Something or other has left, in its traces upon his face, 
the history of two degenerate years. His cheek does 
not look as if it were capable any longer of an ingenu- 
ous blush, and there is a curl about his lip and nostril 
which speaks of perpetual unhealthy scorn, that child 
of mortified vanity and conceit, which brazens out the 
reproaches of self-distrust and self-reproach. See with 


284 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


what a careless, almost patronizing air, he barely 
notices the master, who is passing by him. He has 
just flung a slight nod to Power, studiously taking 
care not to notice Walter at all. Look, too, at the 
boys who are with him; they are not boys with whom 
we like to see him ; they are an idle lot, precocious 
only in folly and in vice. And that younger lad, who 
seems to be his special favorite, is not at all to our 
taste ; he seems the coolest of them all. For during the 
last two years Kenrick has entirely lost his balance ; he 
has deserted his best friends for the 
adulation of juniors, who fed his vanity, 
and the society of elder boys, who per- 
verted his thoughts, and vitiated his 
habits. He has slackened in the career 
of honorable industry, he has deflected 
from the straight paths of integrity and 
virtue. Already the fresh eagerness of 
youth has palled into satiety, already 
some of its sparkling wine for him is 
bitter as vinegar; with him already 
pleasure has become a hectic fever in- 
stead of a healthy glow. Alas ! he is 
not happy. Within these two years he 
has lost — and his countenance betrays 
the fact in its ruined beauty — he has 
lost the true joys of youth, and known 
instead of them the troubles of the envious, the fears of 
the cowardly, the heaviness of the slothful, the shame of 
the unclean. He has lost something of the instinctive 
shrinking, even in thought, from all that is vile and base, 
the loathing of falsehood, the kindness that will not will- 
ingly give pain, the humility which has lowly thoughts 
of its own worth ; — he has lost his joy in things lovely, 
and excellent, and of good report; he has changed 
them for the mirth of fools, which is like crackling 
thorns — changed them for the feet that go down to 
death, for the steps that lay hold of hell. It is a mean 
price for which he has sold his peace of conscience — 
“ the sweetness of the cup that is charged with poison, 
the beauty of the serpent whose bite is death.” 



ST. WINIFRED'S. 


285 


Eden, who is seated reading on one of the benches 
by the wall, has recovered from his illness, but he is 
not, and never will be, what, but for Harpour’s brutal- 
ity, he might have been. He is a nervous, timid, 
intellectual boy. 'No game, unfortunately, has any 
attraction for him. The large liquid eyes, swimming 
sometimes with strange lustre, and often varying in 
color, the delicate flush which any pulse of emotion 
drives glowing into the somewhat pale face, give to 
him an almost girlish aspect, and tell the tale of a 
weakened constitution. Eden’s development has been 
quite altered by his fright ; most of the vivacity and 
playfulness of his character has vanished ; and al- 
though it flashes out when he is alone with his few 
closest friends, such as Walter and Power, his manner 
is, for the most part, very quiet and reserved. Yet 
Eden has a position of his own in the school ; and 
unobtrusive as he is, his opinion is always listened to 
with kindness and respect. When he came into school 
again after his recovery he was received, as I have 
said already, with almost brotherly affection by all the 
boys, who felt how much he had been wronged. He 
became the child and protege of the school, and any cru- 
elty to him would, after this, have been violently resent- 
ed. Devoting himself wholly to work and reading, he 
became very successful in his progress, and is now in 
the second fifth. But what chiefly marks him is his 
extreme gentleness, and the eager way in which he 
strives to help all the younger and most helpless boys. 
Experience of suffering has given him a keen sympathy 
with the oppressed, and young as he is, he is still 
doing a useful work. 

There is Ilarpour playing rackets, and he is playing 
remarkably well. He is now nineteen, and a personage 
of immense importance in the school, for he is head 
of the cricket eleven, Walter being head of the football. 
Ilarpour is quite unchanged, and if he was doing mis- 
chief when we knew him two years ago, he is doing 
twice as much mischief now. His influence is wholly 
pernicious. With just enough cunning to escape 
detection, he yet signalizes himself by complicity in 


286 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


every form of wrong which goes on in the school, and 
some new wrongs he introduces and invents. But 
nothing delights him so much as to instigate other 
boys to resist the authority of the masters. They 
know him to be a nucleus of disorder and wickedness, 
but he has acted with such consummate ingenuity 
as to avoid even laying himself open to any distinct 
proof of his many offences. 

He is just now stopping for a minute in his game 
to talk to those three boys who have been strutting up 
and down the court arm in arm, and whom we easily 
recognize. The one with the red puffy face, with an 
enormous gold pin in his cravat, a bunch of charms 
hanging to his chain, and a ring on his hand, which he 
loses no opportunity of displaying, is our friend Jones, 
with vulgarity as usual stamped on every feature and 
displayed in every movement which he makes; the 
tall slim fellow, with an air of feeble fastness, an in- 
decisive mouth, a habit of running his hand through 
his light-colored hair, and a gaze which usually settles 
in fixed admiration on his faultless boots, can be no 
one but Howard Tracy ; the third, a fellow with far 
more meaning and strength in his face, betrays himself 
to be Mackworth, by the insinuating plausibility and 
Belial-like grace of his manner and aspect. A danger- 
ous serpent this; one never sees him, or hears him 
speak, or observes the dark glitter of his eye, without 
being reminded of a cerastes lithely rustling through 
the dry grass towards its victim. 

And there at last — I thought we should never see 
him — is our dear young joker of jokes, the same un- 
altered Flip whom we know, running down the school 
steps. His face is overflowing with mirth and fun, and 
now he is stopping and holding both his sides for laugh- 
ter, while, with little touches of his own, he retails some 
of the strange blunders which Bliss has made in the 
viva voce examination that morning; to which his friend 
Whalley listens with, the same good-humored smile 
which he had of old. Henderson is a perfect mimic, 
but never uses his powers of mimicry in an ill-natured 
spirit ; and his imitation of Bliss’s stolid perplexity 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


287 


and Dr. Lane’s comments is very ludicrous. While he 
is in the middle of this narrative, Bliss himself appears 
on the scene and relieves his feelings by delivering the 
only pun he ever made in his life, and observing, in a 
solemn tone of voice — 

“Flip, don’t be flippant; ” a remark which he has 
substituted for the “ I’ll lick you, Flip ” of old days. 

“You dear old Blissidas, I think I’ve heard that pun 
once or twice before, ” observes Henderson, calmly 
pulling undone the bow of Bliss’s necktie, and running 
off to escape retaliation, followed at his leisure by 
Whalley, who knows Bliss to be much too lazy to pur- 
sue the chase very far. 

Let us come and hear — for we have put on our cap 
of darkness and are invisible, coming and going where 
we like, unobserved — what our four fast friends at the 
racket-court are talking about. 

“ We shall have lots of lark this half,” observes Har- 
pour, leaning on his racket. 

“Yes; such fun, old boy,” answers Jones. 

“I declare this dull old place was getting quite lively 
before last holidays,” says Mackworth ; “we shall soon 
get things all right here.” 

“Fancy that fellow Power head of the school,” said 
Harpour, bursting into a roar of scornful laughter, 
echoed in faint sniggerings by Jones and Tracy. 

“Might as well have a jug of milk and water head 
of the school,” sneered Mackworth. 

“ Or a bottle of French polish, I should think,” cas- 
ually suggests Henderson, who, en passant, has heard 
the last remark. 

“D that fellow,” says Mackworth, stamping; 

“by Jove, I’ll be even with him some day.” 

“ Is he one of the new monitors ? ” asks Jones. 

“Yes,” says Tracy, “ and Evson’s another ; ” and at 
Walter’s name the faces of all four grew darker ; “and 
Ken rick’s a third.” 

“Oh, Ken rick is, is he? that’s all right. Jolly fel- 
low is Ken,” observes Harpour approvingly. 

“Yes, quite up to snuff,” adds Jones; “and a thor- 
ough gentlemanly chap,” assents Mackworth; for, 


288 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


amazing to relate, Kenrick is on good terms with these 
fellows now, though he has never spoken to Walter 
yet. 

“ Of good family, too, on the mother’s side,” drawls 
Tracy, with his hand lifting his locks. 

“I say, old fellows,” says Harpour, with many 
knowing looks and winks, and pokings of his friends 
in the ribs, — “ I say, stunning tap at Dan’s, you know, 
eh? I say; ” whereupon the others laugh, and Belial 
Mackworth observes, “And let those monitors try to 
peach if they dare. We’ll soon have them under our 
thumb.” 

After which, as their conversation is supremely re- 
pulsive, let us go and take a breath of delicious pure 
sea air, and seat ourselves by Walter and Power on 
the shore. Walter is in good, and even gay spirits, 
being fresh from Semlyn, but Power seems a little 
grave and depressed. 

“Look, Walter,” he says, shying around stone at 
a bit of embedded rock about twenty yards before 
them, but missing it ; “ I believe it was that identical 
rock ” 

“ That identical rock,” said Walter, taking a better 
shot, and hitting it; — “ well, what about it ? ” 

“ — On which you were standing one autumn even- 
ing three years ago, when the tide was coming im ” 

“ And to save me wet trousers you took off your 
shoes and stockings, and carried me in on your back,” 
said Walter. “I remember it well, Rex; it was a 
happy day for me. I recollect Pd been very misera- 
ble ; it was after the Paton affair, you know, and 
every one was cutting me. Your coming to speak to 
me was about the last thing in the world I expected, 
and the best thing I could have hoped. I’d often 
wanted to know you, longed to have you as a friend ; 
but I used to look up to you as such a young swell in 
those days that I never thought we should meet each 
other.” 

“Pooh ! ” said Power ; “but wasn’t it good now of 
me to break the ice and speak first? I declare, I think 
I’ve never done it with any one else. You'd never 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 289 

have done it — now confess ? Only fancy, we mightn’t 
have known each other till this day.” 

“ I shouldn’t have done it at that time,” said Walter, 

“ because I was in Coventry ; but well, never 

mind, Rex, we understand each other. I was looking 
at some porpoises, I remember.” 

“Yes; happy days they were after that. I wish the 
time was back again ! Fancy you a monitor, and me 
head of the school ! ” 

“ Fancy ! we’ve got up the school so much faster 
than we used to expect.” 

“Yes ; but I wish we could change places, and you 
be head, and I sixth monitor as you are. You’ll help 
me, Walter, won’t you ? ” 

“ You don’t doubt that, Rex, I’m sure ; all the help 
/ can give is yours.” 

“ If it weren’t for that I think I would have left, 
Walter. I don’t think somehow I’ve influence enough 
for head. I’m not swell enough at the games.” 

“ You play though now, and enjoy them ; and I don’t 
half believe you, Rex, when you talk of haying wished 
to leave. That would have been cowardice, you know, 
and you’re not the boy to leave your post.” 

“ Here I am then in my place, armor on, visor down, 
determined not to fly, like the Roman soldier whose 
skeleton was found in the sentry-box at Herculaneum,” 
said Power, laughing. 

“And here am I,” said Walter, laughing too, as he 
stood beside him with one foot advanced — “I, your 
sixth spearman.” 

“ The sixth ! the first, you mean,” said Power. “ The 
four monitors, between you and me, won’t, I fear, help 
us much. Brown is very short-sighted, and always 
shutting up with a headache ; Smythe is a mere book- 
worm, and a regular butt even among the little fellows 
— worse than useless — no dignity or anything else; 
Kenrick” (for Kenrick had so far kept the advantage 
of his original start that, much as he had fallen off in 
work, Walter had not yet got above him) — “well, you 
know what Ken is ! ” 

“Yes, I know what Ken is now — he’s our chief 
J 9 


290 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


danger — a doubtful general in the camp. Hallo, Flip, 
you here ? ” said he, as Henderson came up and joined 
them. 

“ Myself, O Evides ; who’s the doubtful general in 
the camp ? — not I, I hope.” 

“ You, Flip? no ; but Kenrick. We’re talking about 
the monitors.” 

“ A doubtful general ! — a traitor, you mean, an en- 
emy, a spy,” said Henderson hotly. “There, now, 
don’t stop me, Power ; abuse is a good safety-valve ; 
the scream of the steam-engine letting off superfluous 
vapor. I should dislike him far worse if I bottled up 
against him a silent spite, hated him in the dark, and 
didn’t openly abuse him sometimes.” 

Power’s large and gentle mind and Walter’s gener- 
ous temper prevented them from joining in Hender- 
son’s strong language ; but they felt no less than he 
did that, if they were to work for the good of the 
school, Kenrick would be their most dangerous, though 
not their declared, opponent. A monitor who seemed 
to recognize none of a monitor’s duties, who openly 
broke rules and defied discipline, who smoked and 
went to public-houses, and habitually associated with 
inferiors, and those the least creditable set in the 
school, did more to damage the authority of the upper 
boys than any number of external assaults on them if 
they were consistent and united among themselves. 

“I foresee storms ahead,” said Power, with a sigh. 
“Flip, you must stand by me as well as Walter.” 

“ Never fear,” said Henderson ; “ but remember I’m 
only the junior monitor of the lot, and I’m so quick- 
tempered, I’m always afraid of stirring up a commo- 
tion some day with the Harpoons” — as Henderson had 
christened the ITarpour lot. 

“You must be like the lightning-kite then,” said 
Power, “and turn the flash away from us.” 

“ And dash the beauteous terror to the ground, 

Smiling majestic — ” 

observed Henderson, parodying the gesture, and mak- 
ing the others laugh. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


291 


“Do you remember Somers, and Dimock, and Dan- 
vers? what big fellows the monitors used to be then! ” 
said Power. 

“ And do you remember certain boys whom Somers, 
and Dimock, and Danvers praised on a certain occa- 
sion?” said Walter. “Come, Rex, don’t despond. 
We weren’t afraid then, why should we be now?” 

“ But then they had Macon, and fellows like that, to 
uphold them in the school.” 

“ So have we,” said Henderson ; “ first and foremost 
Whalley, who’s now got his remove into the upper 
sixth ; then there’s dear old Blissidas, who has arms 
if he hasn’t got brains, and who is as stanch as a rock ; 
and best of all perhaps, there’s Franklin, second in 
both elevens, brave as a lion, strong as a bull. By the 
bye, he'll have a lightning-kite ready made for you, no 
doubt ; he’s accustomed to the experiment.” 

“Why, Flip, you talk as if we were going to have a 
pitched battle,” said Power, ignoring his joke about 
Franklin. 

“ So we are — practically and morally. Look out for 
skirmishes from the Harpour lot ; especially the world, 
the flesh, and the devil, whom I just saw arm in arm.” 

“What do you mean, Flip?” asked Walter, laugh- 
ing. 

“Mean! nothing at all — only Tracy, Jones, and 
Mackworth. Tracy’s the world, Jones is the flesh, and 
Mackworth’s the other thing.” 

“I’ll tell you of two more who will help us if they 
can,” said Walter: “ Cradock and Eden.” 

“Briareus and Paradise,” said Henderson; “poor 
Eden, he can’t do much for us except look on with 
troubled eyes.” 

“ But why should you two expect such a dead assault 
on the monitors this half?” said Power. 

“ Why, the fifth has in it a more turbulent lot just 
now than I ever knew before ; big impudent fellows, 
with no good in them, and quite at the beck of the 
Harpour set,” said Walter. 

“ Yes, and with that fellow Ken rick for a protago- 
nist,” said Henderson ; “ he and Harpour have always 


292 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


been at mischief about the monitors since they caught 
it so tremendously from Somers. “ Well, never mind ; 
aide toi et del faidera. Why, look, there’s Paradise, 
taking charge as usual of a little new fellow; who is 
it?” 

“Look and see ” said Walter, as a little fellow came 
up, with an unmistakable family resemblance — a pretty 
boy, with fresh round cheeks, and light hair, Avhicli 
shone like gold when the sunshine fell upon it. 

“Why, Walter— why, this must be your brother. 
Well, I declare! an Evides secundus, Evides redivivus. 
But he’s younger than you were the day you came, 
and made Jones look small three years ago. How do 
you do, young ’un?” lie shook him kindly by the 
hand, and said, “You’re a lucky little fellow to have a 
monitor brother, and Eden to look after you from the 
first. I wish Pd been so lucky, I know.” 

“ O Walter, what a jolly place this is,” said his little 
brother — “jollier than Semlyn even.” 

“ Wait a bit, Charlie ; don’t make up your mind too 
soon,” said Walter ; while Eden looked at the boy with 
a somewhat sad smile playing on his lips. 



“ WHY, RAVEN, WHATS’S THE ROW ? ” 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. 


AMONG THE NOELITES. 

But, I pray you, who is liis companion ? Is there no young 
squarer now, that will make a voyage with him to the devil ? 
— Much Ado about Nothing. 

Etiam si quis a culpa vacuus in amicitiam ejus inciderat, 
quotidiano usu par similisque caeteris efficiebatur. — Sallust. 

The changes described in the last chapter were not 
the only ones which seriously affected the prosperity 
of St. Winifred’s School, for the staff of masters was 
also partly altered during the last two years, and the 
alterations had not been improvements. Mr. Paton — 
who had by this time manfully resumed his old theo- 
logical labors, and who, to please Walter, had often 
employed him as a willing amanuensis in attempting 
to replace the burnt manuscript — had retired from his 
mastership to a quiet country living to which he had 
been presented by Sir Lawrence Power. Strange as it 
may seem, Mr. Paton chiefly, though of course indi- 
rectly, owed this living to Walter, who had first talked 
to Sir Lawrence about Mr. Paton, in terms of deep 
regard. The opportunity, therefore, which Walter had 
sought so earnestly, of atoning in some way for the 

293 


294 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


mischief which he hacl done to his old master, was 
amply granted to him ; and Mr. Paton never felt more 
strongly, that even out of the deepest apparent evils 
God can bring about undoubted blessings. St. Wini- 
fred’s, however, was the loser by his promotion. The 
benefit of his impartial justice and stern discipline, and 
the weight of his firm and manly character in the 
councils of the school, was gone. And St. Winifred’s 
had suffered a still greater loss in the departure of Mr. 
Percival, who had accepted, some months before, the 
offer of a tutorship in his own university. Had he 
continued where he was, his influence, his well-deserved 
popularity, his kind, wise, conciliatory manner, the 
gratitude which rewarded his ready and self-denying 
sympathy, would, in the troubled period which ensued, 
have been even more useful than his brilliant scholar- 
ship and successful method of teaching a form. These 
two masters had left amid the universal regret of the 
boys and of their colleagues, and their places had been 
filled up by younger, less able, and less experienced men. 

And worse than this, Dr. Lane, soon after the term 
began, was taken seriously ill, and was ordered to the 
German baths for two months, during which his work 
was done by another master, who had not the same 
influence. From all which causes, this half-year at 
St. Winifred’s was the most turbulent, the most riot- 
ous, and the most unhappy, ever known in that honor- 
able and ancient school. 

So Charlie Evson soon found reason to revise and 
modify his opinion, that St. Winifred’s — as he then saw 
it — was jollier than even Semlyn itself. His name 
had been entered in the list of Mr. Percival’s house, 
before it was known that he was going to leave. Wal- 
ter liked Mr. Percival so much better than he did his 
own tutor, Mr. Robertson, and had experienced from 
him so much more kindness, that he thought it would 
be an advantage for Charlie to be placed directly under 
so wise and kind a friend ; and Mr. Evson, afraid that 
his little son would be quite overshadowed by his elder 
brother, and that Walter’s influence, which was very 
transcendent over Charlie’s mind, would make him too 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


295 


dependent on another, and prevent him from develop- 
ing his own natural character, was by no means averse 
to the arrangement. But since Mr. Percival had left, 
Charlie, with the other boys in the house, was handed 
over to the charge of Mr. Noel, a new master, who had 
to win his way and learn his work, neither of which he 
succeeded in doing until he had committed many mis- 
takes. 

In this house were Kenrick and Mackworth — Ken- 
rick, as monitor, was in some measure responsible for 
the character of the house, and he had Charlie as one 
of his fags. At this time, as I have already observed 
with sorrow, Kenrick’s influence was not only useless 
for good, but was even positively bad. There was no 
other monitor who did not try to be of some use to his 
fags ; many of the monitors, by quiet kindnesses and 
useful hints, by judicious help and unselfish sympathy, 
were of most real service to the boys who nominally 
“ fagged ” for them, but who, in point of fact, were re- 
quired to do nothing except to take an occasional mes- 
sage, to see that the study fires did not go out, and 
to carry up the tea and breakfast for a week each, in 
order of rotation. Few St. Winifred’s boys would 
have hesitated to admit that they would have been less 
happy, and would have had fewer chances in school 
life, if they had not been fags at first, and thereby 
found friends and protectors in the boys for whom 
they fagged. Kenrick, however, did not follow the 
good example which had become almost traditional ; 
for, filled as he was with the spirit of wilful pride, and 
on bad terms with the order to which he belonged, he 
either spoiled his fags by petting and pampering them, 
and letting them see his own disregard for duty, or, if 
they did. not take his fancy, he snubbed and disre- 
garded them— at any rate, did nothing whatever to 
help them. 

Kenrick was quite willing to have placed Charlie 
Evson in the first of these classes, for he was a boy 
whom it was impossible to see and not to like. His 
antagonistic position towards most of his own body 
made him the head of a sort of faction in the school, 


296 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and he would have been proud beyond measure to have 
had any boy like Charlie as one of his followers. But 
Kenrick had better reasons for wishing to attach 
Charlie to himself. Deeply as he had degenerated, 
disgraceful as his present conduct was, Kenrick, in the 
secret depths of his soul, sighed and pined for better 
things; though vice, and folly, and pride had their 
attractions for Trim, lie was still sick at heart for the 
purer atmosphere which he had left. He looked at 
Charlie with vague hopes, for through him he thought 
that he might yet perhaps, without lowering his pride 
by actually seeming to have made any advance, bring 
about a reconciliation with his best and earliest 
friends, — bring about a return to his former and more 
upright course. 

But this was not to be. When a boy goes wrong he 
strews every step of his downward career with ob- 
stacles against his own return ; and he little dreams 
how difficult of removal some of these obstacles will 
be. The obstacle in this case was another fag of Ken- 
rick’s named Wilton. I am sorry to write of that boy. 
Young in years, he was singularly old in vice. A 
more brazen, a more impudent, a more hardened little 
scapegrace — in schoolboy language, “ a cooler hand ” — 
it would have been impossible to find. He had early 
gained the nickname of Raven from his artful looks. 
His manner was a mixture of calm audacity and con- 
summate self-conceit. Though you knew him to be a 
thorough scamp, the young imp would stare you in 
the face with the effrontery of a man about town. He 
was active, sharp, and nice-looking, and there was 
nothing which he was either afraid or ashamed to do. 
He had not a particle of that modesty which in every 
good boy is as natural as it is graceful ; he could tell a 
lie without the slightest hesitation or the faintest 
blush ; nay, while he was telling it, though he knew 
that you knew it to be a lie, he would not abash for an 
instant the glance of his dark eyes. Yet this boy, like 
Charlie, was only thirteen years old. And for all these 
reasons, Wilton was the idol of all the big bad boys in 
the school ; and in spite of all these reasons — for the 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 297 

boy had in him the fascination of a serpent — he was 
the favorite of Kenrick too. 

The three boys who gave the tone to Mr. Noel’s 
house were Kenrick, Mack worth, and Wilton. They 
formed as it were an electric chain of bad influence, 
and as they were severally prominent in the chief di- 
visions of the school, they had peculiar opportunities 
for doing harm. Kenrick’s evil example told with ex- 
traordinary power through the whole house, and es- 
pecially upon the highest boys, who naturally imitated 
him. I do not mean to say that Kenrick had sunk so 
low that wilfully and consciously he lowered the char- 
acter of the house, which as monitor he ought to have 
improved and raised; but he did so whether with in- 
tention or not; he did so negatively by neglecting all 
his duties, and by giving no direct countenance to what 
was right; he did so positively by not openly discoun- 
tenancing, and by actually practising, many things 
which he knew to be wrong. The bad work was car- 
ried on by Mack worth, who was the most prominent 
fifth-form boy in the house. This boy’s ability, and 
strength of will, and keenness of tongue gave him im- 
mense authority, and enabled him to carry out almost 
everything he liked. To complete the mischief, among 
the lower boys Wilton reigned supreme; and as Wil- 
ton was prouder of Kenrick’s patronage than of any- 
thing else, and by flattery and cajolery could win over 
Kenrick to nearly anything, the worst part of the 
characters of these boys acting and reacting on each 
other, leavened the house through and through with all 
that is least good, or true, or lovely, or of a good re- 
port. The mischief began before Mr. Percival left, 
but it never could have proceeded half so far, if Mr. 
Noel’s inexperience, and the very kindness which led 
him to relax the existing discipline, had not tempted 
the boys to unwonted presumption. 

Such was the state of things when Charlie entered 
Mr. Noel’s house. Walter knew that Mr. Percival’s 
promotion had frustrated the plan he had formed when 
he advised his father to put Charlie in that house, but 
the step could not now be recalled, nor, indeed, was 


298 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


Walter or any other monitor aware how bad the state 
of things had become. For among other dangerous 
innovations, Mackworth and Wilton had brought about 
a kind of understanding, that the house should to some 
extent keep to itself, resent all intrusion into its own 
precincts, and maintain a profound silence about its 
own secrets. Besides all this, Walter bitterly and sor- 
rowfully felt that for some reason, which he was un- 
able to fathom, the whole school was just then in an 
unsatisfactory state, and that Charlie, for whom his 
whole heart yearned with brotherly love and pity, 
would be exposed to severe temptations in whatever 
house he should be placed. He hoped too that, as 
Charlie would always have the run of his and of 
Power’s study, it would make little difference to him 
that he was under a different house master. 

To Mackworth and Wilton the arrival of one or two 
new boys was a matter of some importance, but little 
anxiety. The new boys were necessarily young, and 
in the present united state of the house, it was toler- 
ably certain that they would catch the prevalent spirit, 
and be quickly assimilated to the condition of the 
others. The task of moulding them — if they were at 
all difficult to manage — fell to Wilton, and he certainly 
accomplished it with astonishing success. A new- 
comer’s sensibilities were not too quickly shocked. 
The Noelites, for their own purposes, behaved very 
kindly to him at first ; they were first-rate hands at 
“ destroying a boy by means of his best affections,” at 
“seething a kid in its mother’s milk.” The bad 
language, the school trickeries and deceits, the dodges 
for breaking rules and escaping punishments, the 
agreed-on lies to avoid detection, the suppers, and 
brandy, and smoking parties, and false keys to get out 
after lock-up, and all the other detestable symptoms 
of a vitiated and depraved set, were carefully kept in 
abeyance at first. The new fellow was treated very 
kindly, was sounded and fathomed cautiously, was 
taught to get up a strong house feeling by perpetual 
endeavors to wake in him the esprit de corps , was 
gently ridiculed if he displayed any good principle, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


299 


was tremendously bullied if lie showed signs of recal- 
citrance, was according to his temperament led, or 
coaxed, or initiated, or intimidated, into the condition 
of wickedness required of him before the house could 
continue to go to the devil, as fast as it wished to do, 
and was doing before. This was MackwortlTs work, 
and Wilton acted as his Azazel, and Kenrick did not 
interfere, though he knew or guessed all that was 
going on ; he did not interfere, he did not prevent it, 
he did not even remonstrate at first, and afterwards 
he began by acquiescing, he ended by — yes, the truth 
must be told — he ended by joining in it all. O Ken- 
rick, when human beings meet face to face before a 
certain judgment-seat, there are some young souls who 
will have a bill of indictment against you; the same 
who may point to Mackworth or to Wilton, and say, 
as of old, “ The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.” 

Five new boys had come this half-year. Four of 
them had been sounded by the rest of the house; one 
of them, named Stone, had come from a large private 
school, and was prepared for whatever he might find 
in more senses than one. Another, Symes, was a boy 
ill-trained at home, of no particular principles, and 
quite ready to flow with the stream. A third, Hanley, 
had come meaning to be good ; he had been shocked 
when he first heard oaths, and when he was first 
asked if he would mind telling any of the regular lies 
— “ crams ” the boys called them — in the event of 
any master question- 
ing him ; but his 
wounded sensibili- 
ties were very quick- 
ly healed, and he had 
passed with fatal fa- 
cility from disgust 
to indifference, from 
indifference totolera- 
tion. The fourth, 

Elgood, was a timid 
child, for whom no 
one cared either way, 



300 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and whom they took care to frighten into promising 
to do whatever lie was ordered. A terrible state of 
things— was it not? But, ah me! it was so once upon 
a time. The fifth new boy in Mr. Noel’s house was 
Charles Evson ; and with this fifth new boy the devil’s 
agents knew instinctively that they would have a 
great deal of trouble. But they meant to bait their 
hook very carefully, and they did not at all despair. 
Their task was made peculiarly piquant by its very 
difficulty, and by the fact that Charlie was one in whom 
their declared enemy, Walter Evson, was so nearly 
concerned. They were determined by fair means or 
foul to win him over, and make him their proselyte, 
until he became as much a child of sin as they were 
themselves. But they proceeded to their task with 
the utmost caution, and endeavored to charm Charlie 
over to their views by showing him great attention, by 
trying to make things pleasant for him, by flattering 
him with notice, and seeming to welcome him cordially 
as one of themselves. Their dissimulation was pro- 
found ; at first the new boy found everything quite 
delightful, and before a week was over had caught, as 
they meant him to catch, the spirit of party, and always 
was ready to stick up for the Noelites as the best 
house in the school. So far so good ; but this was only 
the first step of initiation into these Eleusinian mys- 
teries. 

So Master Wilton — Belial junior, as Henderson al- 
ways called him — ingratiated himself into Charlie’s 
favor, and tried, not without success, to make himself 
peculiarly agreeable. At first sight, indeed, Charlie 
felt an inward repulsion to him. He did not know 
why he did, for, so far from there being anything ob- 
viously repulsive in Wilton’s look pr manners, there 
were many who thought him the picture of innocence, 
and considered his manners quite perfection in their 
politeness and good breeding. Charlie therefore in- 
stantly conquered his first feeling of dislike as uncharit- 
able and groundless; and as Wilton seemed to lay 
himself out for his friendship, he was oftener with him 
during the first fortnight than with any other boy. It 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


301 


was strange to see the two together, so utterly different 
were they in every respect, and so great was the con- 
trast of Charlie’s bright, modest face with the indescrib- 
able dangerous coolness of Wilton’s knowing smile. 

“ Look,” said Henderson to Whalley, as he saw them 
together one day in the playground, “ there go Ithuriel 
and Belial junior, very thick at present.” 

“ Yes ; I don’t like to see it. I don’t hear any good 
of that fellow Wilton.” 

“ Good ! I should rather think not.” 

“ Give young Evson a hint, Flip, will you, that 
Wilton’s not a good friend for him. He looks a nice 
little fellow, and I don’t like to tell him, because I don’t 
know him.” 

“Never fear; when Charlie touches him with his 
spear, or sees him light on the top of Niphates — one of 
which things will happen soon enough — he’ll not be 
slow to discover who lie is. If not, I’ll tell Walter, 
and he shall be Charlie’s Uriel.” 

“Touches him with his spear! — what spear? — top of 
Niphates! — Uriel!” said Whalley, with ludicrous as- 
tonishment : “ here, Power, you’re just in time to help 
me to put a strait- waistcoat on Flip. He says that 
when Wilton lights on the top of Niphates, which he 
will do soon, young Evson will discover that lie’s a 
scamp. What does it all mean ? ” 

“It only means that Flip and I have been reading 
Paradise Lost” said Power, laughing, “ and at present 
Flip’s mind is a Miltonic conglomerate.” And he pro- 
ceeded to explain to Whalley that Ithuriel was one of 
the cherubs who guarded Eden 

(“Only that in this case Eden guards the cherub,” 
observed Henderson parenthetically.) 

— “and who, by touching Satan with his spear, made 
him bound up in his original shape, when he sat like 
a toad squat at the ear of Eve ; and, moreover, that 
Uriel had recognized Satan through his mask, when, 
lighting on Niphates, his looks became 

“ Alien from heaven, with passions foul obscured.” 

« Seriously though,” said Henderson, “ Uriel must 


302 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


be asleep, or be wouldn’t let his little brother get under 
Belial’s wings.” 

In fact, Wilton was forced to keep on the mask much 
longer than he had ever meant to do. He could find 
no joint in Charlie’s armor. The boy was so thoroughly 
manly, so simple-hearted, so trustful and innocent, that 
Wilton could make nothing of him. If he tried to in- 
doctrinate Charlie into the state of morality among 
the Noelites, either Charlie did not understand him, 
or else quite openly expressed his disapproval and 
indignation; and when finally Wilton, quite tired 
out, did throw off the mask, Charlie shook him away 
from him, turned with a sickening sensation from 
the unbared features of vice, and unfeignedly loathed 
the boy who had pretended to be his friend — loathed 
him all the more because he had tried to like him, 
but now saw the snare which was being spread in 
his sight. 

Every now and then during their early intercourse, 
Charlie had felt a certain restraint in talking to Wil- 
ton ; he could not be at ease with him though he tried, 
lie caught the gleam of the snake through the flowers 
that only half concealed his folds. And Wilton, too, 
had got very tired of playing a part. He could not 
help liis real wickedness cropping out now and then, 
yet whenever it did, Charlie started in such a way 
that even Wilton was ashamed ; and though generally 
the shafts of conscience glanced off from the panoply 
of steel and ice which cased this boy’s heart, yet during 
these days they once or twice reached the mark, and 
made him smart with long- unwonted anguish. He 
was conscious that he was doing the devil’s work, and 
doing it for very poor wages. He felt now and then 
Charlie’s immense superiority to himself, and, in a 
mood of pity, when, as they were standing one day in 
Mr. Noel’s private room to say a lesson, he caught 
sight of their two selves reflected in the looking-glass 
over the mantelpiece, and realized the immense gulf 
which separated them — a gulf not of void chaos and 
flaming space, but the 'deeper gulf of warped affec- 
tions and sinful thoughts — he had felt a sudden long- 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


303 


ing to be other than what he was, to have Charlie for 
a true friend, to give up trying to make him a bad boy, 
and to fall at his feet and ask his pardon. And when 
he had doggedly failed in his lesson, and got his cus- 
tomary bad mark, and customary punishment, and 
received his customary objurgation, that he was getting 
worse and worse, and that his time was utterly wasted 
— and when he saw the master’s face light up with 
a pleased expression as Charlie went cheerfully and 
faultlessly through his work — a sudden paroxysm of 
penitence seized Wilton, and, once out of the room, he 
left Charlie and ran up the stairs to Kenrick’s study, 
in which he was allowed to sit whenever he liked. 
No one was there, and throwing himself into a chair, 
Wilton covered his face with both hands, and burst 
into passionate tears. A long train of thoughts and 
memories passed through his mind — memories of his 
own headlong fall to what he was, memories of younger 
and of innocent days, memories of a father, now dead, 
who had often set him on his knee, and prayed, before 
all other things, that he might grow up a good and 
truthful boy, and with no stain upon his name. But 
while memory whispered of past innocence, conscience 
told him of present guilt ; told him that if his father 
could have foreseen what he would become, his heart 
would have broken ; told him and, he knew it, that his 
name was a proverb and a byword in the school. But 
the prominent and the recurring thought was ever 
this — “Is it too late to mend? Is the door shut 
against me?” For Wilton remembered how once be- 
fore his mind was harrowed by fear and guilt as he 
had listened to Mr. Percival’s parting sermon on that 
sad text — one of the saddest in all the Holy Book — 
“ And the door was shut.” 

Suddenly he was startled violently from his reverie, 
for the door was shut with a bang, and Kenrick, enter- 
ing, flung himself in a chair, saying, with a vexed 
expression of voice, “ Too late.” 

It was but a set of verses which Kenrick had 
written for a prize exercise, and which he had just 
sent in too late. He had not lost all ambition, but he 


304 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


had no real friend now to inspirit or stimulate him, so 
that he often procrastinated, and was seldom successful 
with anything. 

But his accidental words fell with awful meaning 
and strange emphasis on poor Wilton’s ear. Wilton 
had never heard of the Bath Kol, he knew nothing of 
the power that wields the tongue amid the chances of 
destiny ; but fear made him superstitious, and, forget- 
ting his usual dissimulation, he looked up at Ken rick 
aghast, without wiping away the traces which un- 
wonted tears had left upon his face. 

“Why, Raven boy, what’s the matter?” asked 
Ken rick, looking at him with astonishment; “much 
you care for my having a set of iambics too late.” 

“ Oh, is that all ? ” asked Wilton, still looking 
frightened. 

“All? Yes; and enough, too, for me. But” — 
stopping suddenly — “why, Raven what’s the row? 
You’ve been crying, by all that’s odd ! Why, I didn’t 
know you’d ever shed a tear since you’d been in the 
cradle. Raven crying — what a notion! Crocodile 
tears, eh ? ” 

Wilton was ashamed to have been caught crying, 
and angry to be laughed at. He was leaving the room 
silently and in a pet, when Kenrick caught him, and, 
looking at him, said in a kindlier tone — 

“Nonsense, Ra ; don’t mind a little chaff. What’s 
happened? Nothing serious, I hope.” 

But Wilton was angry and miserable just then. 
He did not venture to tell Kenrick what had really 
been passing through his mind. “ Let me go,” he said, 
struggling to get free. 

“Oh, go, by all means,” said Kenrick, with his pride 
all on fire in a moment; “don’t suppose that I want 
you or care for you ; ” and he turned his back on 
Wilton, to whom he had never once spoken harshly 
before. 

The current of Wilton’s thought was turned ; he 
really liked Kenrick, who was the only person for whom 
he had any regard at all. Besides, Kenrick’s support 
and favor were everything to him just then, and he 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 305 

stopped irresolutely at the door, unwilling to leave 
him in anger. 

“ What do you want? Why don’t you go?” asked 
Kenrick, with his back still turned. 

Wilton came back to the window, and humbly took 
Kenrick’s hand, looking up at him as though to ask 
forgiveness. 

“ IIow odd you are to-day, Raven,” said Kenrick, 
relenting. “ What were you crying about when I 
came in?” 

“Well, I’ll tell you, Ken. I was thinking how 
much better some fellows are than I am, and whether 
it was too late to begin afresh, and whether the door 
was open to me still, when you came in, and said, ‘ Too 
late,’ and banged the door, which I took for an answer 
to my thoughts.” 

They were the first serious words Kenrick had ever 
heard from Wilton ; but he did not choose to heed 
them, and only said, after a pause — 

“ Other fellows better than you ? Not a bit of it. 
Less plucky, perhaps ; greater hypocrites, certainly ; 
but you are the jolliest of them all, Ra.” 

And with that silly, silly speech Wilton was reas- 
sured ; a gratified smile perched itself upon his lips, and 
his eyes sparkled with delight ; nor was he soon revis- 
ited by any qualms of conscience. 

20 



“ HOW DO YOU GET ON WITH YOUNG EVSON ? ” 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY- SECOND. 

DISENCHANTMENT. 


’0 Se Kaputvog aid 1 e<pa 
XCL^a tov b(j)iv 2,aj3b)v, 
evOea XPV T ° v eralpov epev 
ml fir) UKoXia <j>povelv . — Skolion. 

“How do you get on with the young Evson, Ra?” 
asked Mackworth of Wilton, with a sneer. 

“ Not at all,” said Wilton. “ He’s awfully particular 
and straitlaced, just like that brother of his. No 
more fun while he’s in the house.” 

“ Confound him ! ” said Mackworth, frowning darkly ; 
“ if he doesn’t like what he sees, he must lump it. He’s 
not worth any more trouble.” 

“ So, Mack, you too have discovered what he’s 
like?” 

“Yes, I have,” answered Mackworth savagely. For 
all his polish, his courtesies, and civilities had not suc- 
ceeded in making Charlie conceal how much he feared 
and disliked him. The young horse rears the first 
time it hears the adder’s hiss, and the dove’s eye trem- 
306 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


307 


bles instinctively when the hawk is near. Charlie half 
knew and half guessed the kind of character he had to 
deal with, and made Mackworth hate him with deadly 
hatred by the way in which, without one particle of 
rudeness or conceit, he managed to keep him at a dis- 
tance, and check every approach to intimacy. 

With Kenrick the case was different. Charlie 
thought that he looked one of the nicest and best fel- 
lows in the house, but he could not get over the fact 
that Wilton was his favorite. It was Wilton’s con- 
stant and daily boast that Ken would do anything for 
him ; and Charlie felt that Wilton was not a boy whom 
Walter or Power at any rate would even have toler- 
ated, much less liked. It was this that made him 
receive Kenrick’s advances with shyness and coldness ; 
and when Kenrick observed this, he at once concluded 
that Charlie had been set against him by Walter, and 
that he would report to Walter all he did and said. 
This belief was galling to him as wormwood. Sud- 
denly, and with most insulting publicity, he turned 
Charlie off from being one of his fags, and from that 
time never spoke of him without a sneer, and never 
spoke to him at all. 

Meanwhile, as the term advanced, St. Winifred’s 
gradually revealed itself to Charlie in a more and more 
unfavorable light. The discipline of the school was in 
a most impaired state ; the evening work grew more 
and more disorderly ; few of the monitors did their 
duty with any vigor, and the big idle fellows in the 
fifth set the example of insolence towards them and 
rudeness to the masters. All rules were set at defiance 
with impunity, and in the chaos which ensued, every 
one did what was right in his own eyes. 

One evening, during evening work, Charlie was try- 
ing hard to do the verses which had been set to his 
form. He found it very difficult in the noise that was 
going on. Not half a dozen fellows in the room were 
working or attempting to work; they were talking, 
laughing, rattling the desks, playing tricks on each 
other, and throwing books about the room. The one 
bewildered new master, who nominally kept order 


308 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


among the two hundred boys in the room, walked up 
and down in despair, speaking in vain first to one, then 
to another, and almost giving up the farce of attempt- 
ing to maintain silence. But seeing Charlie seriously 
at work he came up and asked if he could give him any 
assistance? 

Charlie gratefully thanked him, and the master sat 
down to try and smooth some of his difficulties. His 
doing so was the sign for an audible titter, which there 
was no attempt to suppress ; and when he had passed 
on, Wilton, whose conduct had been more impertinent 
than that of any one else, said to Charlie — 

“ I say, young Evson, how you are grinding ! ” 

“I have these verses to do,” said Charlie simply. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed Wilton, as though he had 
made some good joke. “Here, shall I give you a 
wrinkle ?” 

“Yes, if it’s allowed.” 

The answer was greeted with another laugh, and 
Wilton said, “I’ll save you all further trouble, young 
’un. Observe the dodge; we’re all up to it.” 

He put up a white handkerchief to his nose, and 
walking to the master said, “ Please, sir, my nose is 
bleeding. May I go out for a minute ? ” 

“Your nose bleeding? That’s the third time your 
nose has bled this week, and other boys have also 
come with their noses bleeding.” 

“Do you doubt my word, sir?” asked Wilton, his 
handkerchief still held up, and assuming an injured 
air. 

“ I should be sorry to do so until you give me reason,” 
answered the master courteously. “ It seems a strange 
circumstance, but you may go.” 

It would have been very easy to see whether his 
nose was bleeding or not, but the master was trying, 
very unsuccessfully at present, whether implicit con- 
fidence would produce a sense of honor among the 
boys. 

Wilton went out hardly concealing his laughter, and 
in ten minutes returned with the verses, finished and 
written out. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


309 


u There,” he said, “ Ken did those for me ; he knocked 
them off in five minutes. Ken’s an awfully clever fel- 
low, though he never opens a book. Don’t bore your- 
self with verses any more ; I’ll get them done for 
you.” 

Charlie glanced at the paper, and saw at once that 
the verses were perfectly done* 

“Do you mean to show up that copy as your own, 
Wilton?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“ But we are marked for them.” 

“Hear, hear! thanks for the information. So much 
the better. I shall get a jolly good mark.” 

“ Shut up, young Innocence, and don’t be a muff,” 
said another Noelite. “We all do the same thing. 
Take what Heaven sends you and be glad to get it.” 

“Thank you,” said Charlie, looking round; “ you 
may, but I’d rather not. It isn’t fair.” 

“ Oh, how good we are ! how sweet we are! what an 
angel we are! ” said Wilton, turning up the whites of 
his eyes, while the rest applauded him. But if they 
meant their jeers to tell on Charlie’s resolution, they 
were mistaken. He looked quietly round at them all 
with his clear eyes, gravely handed the paper back to 
Wilton, and quietly resumed his work. They were 
angry to be so foiled, and determined that, if he would 
not copy the verses, he should at least do them in no 
other way. One of them took his paper and tore it, 
another split up his quill pens by dashing them on the 
desk, while a third seized his dictionary. The master, 
observing that something was going on at that desk, 
came and stood by ; and as long as he was there, Charlie 
managed to write out what he had done, while the 
others, cunningly inserting an occasional mistake, or 
altering a few epithets, copied out the verses which 
Ken rick had done for Wilton. But directly the master 
turned away again, a boy on the opposite side of the 
table, with the utmost deliberation, took hold of 
Charlie’s fair copy, and emptied the ink-stand over it 
in three or four separate streams. 

Vexed as he was — for until he came to school he 


BIO 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


had never known unkindness — he took it quietly and 
good-humoredly. Next morning, before the rest of 
the boys in his dormitory, who were mainly in his 



own form, were aware of what he meant to do, he got 
up early and went to Walter’s study, hoping to write 
out the verses there from memory. But he found the 
study in the possession of the housemaid ; chapel-bell 
rang, and after chapel he went into morning school 
with the exercise unfinished. For this, he, the only 
boy in the form who had attempted to do his duty, 
received a punishment, while the rest looked on un- 
abashed, and got marks for their stolen work. Wilton 
received nearly full marks for his. The master, Mr. 
Paton’s successor, thought it odd that Wilton could do 
his verses so much better than any of his other work, 
but he could not detect the cheating, and Wilton always 
assured him that the verses were entirely his own com- 
position. 

It was about time now, Wilton thought, to hoist his 
true colors ; but, as he had abundance of brass, he 
followed Charlie out of the schoolroom, talked to him 
familiarly as if nothing had happened, and finally took 
his arm. But this was too much ; for the boy, who 
was as open as the day in all his dealings, at once 
withdrew his arm, and standing still, looked him full 
in the face. 


S T. WINIFRED' S . 311 

“ So ! ” said Wilton, “ now take your choice — friends 
or enemies — which shall it be ? ” 

u If you want me to cheat, and tell lies, and be mean 
— not friends .” 

“So! enemies then, mind. Look out for squalls, 
young Evson. One question, though,” said Wilton, 
as Charlie turned away. 

“Well?” 

“ Are you going to sneak about this to your 
brother ? ” 

Charlie was silent. Without any intention of pro- 
curing Walter’s interference, he had meant to talk to 
him about his difficulties, and to ask his advice. But 
if this was to be stigmatized as sneaking he felt that 
he had rather not do it, for there is no action a boy 
fears more, and considers more mean than this. 

“Oh, I see,” said Wilton ; “you do mean to peach, 
blab, tell tales, do you? Well, it don’t matter much ; 
you’ll find he can do precious little ; and it will be all 
the worse for you in the long run.” 

“I shan’t tell him,” said Charlie shortly; and those 
words sealed his lips, as with a heavy heart he entered 
the breakfast-room, and meditated on troubles to come. 

Which troubles came quite fast enough — very fast 
indeed. For the house, or rather the leading spirits 
in it, thought that they had wasted quite enough time, 
and with quite sufficient success in angling for the 
new boys, and determined to resume without any fur- 
ther delay their ordinary courses. If Charlie was fool 
enough to resist them, they said, so much the worse 
for him. During the day, indeed, he was saved from 
many of the annoyances which Walter had been obliged 
to endure, by escaping from the great schoolroom to 
the happy and quiet refuge of Walter’s, or Power’s, or 
Eden’s study. There he could always be unmolested, 
and enjoy the kindness with which he was treated, 
and the cheerful healthy atmosphere which contrasted 
so strangely in its moral sweetness with the turbid 
and polluted air of Noelite society. But in the evening 
at evening work, and afterwards in the dormitories, lie 
was wholly at the mercy of that bad confederacy which 


312 


ST. WiyiFREb'S. 


had tried to mould him to its own will. He was in a 
large dormitory of ten boys, and as this was the prin- 
cipal room in Mr. Noel’s house, it formed the regular 
refuge every night for the idle and the mischievously- 
inclined. When the candles were put out at bed-time 
it was seldom long before they were relit in this room, 
— which was somewhat remote from the others at the 
end of a long corridor, and of which the window opened 
on a secluded part of Dr. Lane’s garden. If a scout 
were placed at the end of the corridor he could give 
timely warning of any danger, so that the chance of 
detection was very small. Had the candles been relit 
only for a game of play, Charlie would have been the 
first to join in the fun. But the Noelites were far too 
vitiated in taste to be long content with mere bolstering 
or harmless games. It seemed to Charlie that the 
candles were relit chiefly for the purpose of eating and 
drinking forbidden things, of playing cards, or of bully- 
ing and tormenting those boys w r ho were least advanced 
in general wickedness. 

“ I say, young Evson,” said Wilton to him one night 
soon after the fracas above narrated, “ we’re going to 
have some fun to-night. Stone, like a brick as he is, 
has stood a couple of bottles of wine, and Hanley some 
cards. We shall have a smoke too.” 

All this was said in a tone of braggadocio, meant to 
be exceedingly telling, but it only made Charlie feel 
that he loathed this swaggering little boy with his 
premature savoir vivere more and more. He under- 
stood too the hint that two of the new fellows had 
contributed to the house carousal, and fully expected 
that he would be asked next. He secretly, however, 
determined to refuse, because he knew well that a 
mere harmless feast was not intended, but rather a 
smoking and drinking bout. He had subscribed liber- 
ally to all the legitimate funds — the football, the racket- 
court, the gymnasium ; but he saw no reason why he 
should be taxed for things which he disliked and dis- 
approved. The result of that evening confirmed him 
in his resolution. It was a scene of drinking, gluttony, 
secret fear, endless squabbling, and joyless excitement. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 313 

“ Of course you’ll play, and put into the pool?” said 
Wilton. 

“No, thank you.” 

“ No, thank you” said Wilton, scornfully mimicking 
his tone. “ Of course not ; you’ll do nothing except 
set yourself up for a saint, and make yourself disagree- 
able.” 

During the evening Stone brought him some wine, 
which Charlie again declined, with “ No, thank you, 
Stone.” Wilton again echoed the refusal, which was 
chorused by a dozen others ; and from that time 
Charlie was duly dubbed with the nickname of No- 
thank-you. He was forcibly christened by this new 
name, by being held in bed while half a wineglass of 
port was thrown in his face. The wine poured down 
and stained his night-shirt, and then they all began to 
dread that it would lead to their being discovered, and 
threatened Charlie with endless penalties if he dared 
to tell. There was, however, little danger, as the 
Noelites had bribed the servants who waited on them 
and cleaned their rooms. 

The same scene, with slight variations, was con- 
stantly repeated, and every fresh refusal was accom- 
panied by a kick or a cuff from the bigger boys, a sneer 
or an insult from the younger ; for Charlie himself was 
one of the youngest of them all. One night it was, 
“ I say, you fellow — you, No-thank-you— will you fork 
out for some wine to-night! No? Well then, take 
that and that, and be hung to you for a little muff.” 
Another time it would be, “ Hi there, No-thank-you, 
we want sixpence for a pack of cards. Oh, you won’t 
be so sinful as to part with sixpence for cards ? Con- 
founded little miser;” “Niggard,” said another; 
“ Skinflint,” shouted a third. And a general cry of 
“Saint,” which expressed the climax of villainy, ended 
the verbal portion of the contest. And then some one 
would slap him on the cheek, with “Take that,” “and 
that,” from another, “ and that,” from a third— the last 
being a boot or a piece of soap shied at his head. 

It cannot be more wearisome to the reader than it is 
to me to linger in these coarse scenes ; but, for Charlie 


314 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


it was a long martyrdom most heroically borne. He 
was almost literally alone and single-handed against 
the rest of the house; yet he would not give way. 
Walter, and Power, and Henderson all knew that he 
was bullied, sorely bullied; this they learnt far more 
from Eden, and from other sources, than from Charlie 
himself, for he, poor child, held himself bound by his 
promise to Wilton, and kept his lips resolutely sealed. 
But these friends knew that he was suffering for con- 
science’ sake; and Walter helped him with tender 
brotherly affection, and Power with brave words and 
kindly sympathy, and Henderson by his cheering and 
playful manner ; — and this caused him much happiness 
all day long, until he felt that, with that short but 
heart-uttered prayer which he breathed so earnestly 
from “ the altar of his own bedside,” he had strength 
sufficient to meet and to conquer the trials which night 
brought. 

In the house one boy and one only helped him. 
That boy ought to have been Kenrick ; his monitorial 
authority and many responsible privileges were en- 
trusted to him, as he well knew, for the main express 
purpose of putting down all immorality, and all cruelty, 
with a strong and remorseless hand. It required very 
little courage to do this ; the sympathies of the ma- 
jority of boys, unless they be suffered to grow cor- 
rupted with an evil leaven, are naturally and strongly 
on the side of right. In Mr. Robertson’s house, for 
instance, where Walter and Henderson were monitors, 
such wrongdoings could not have gone on with impu- 
nity, or rather could not have gone on at all. There, 
a little boy, treated with gross severity or injustice, 
would not have hesitated for an instant to invoke the 
assistance of the monitors, whom he looked upon as 
his natural guardians, and who would be eager to ex- 
tend to him a generous and efficient protection. The 
same was the case in Mr. Edwardes’s house, of which 
Power was the head. Power, indeed, had no coadjutor 
on whom he could at all rely. One of the monitors 
associated with him was Legrange, who rather followed 
Kenrick’s lead, and the other was Brown, who, though 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


315 


well-intentioned, was a boy of no authority. Yet these 
two houses were in a better condition than any others 
in the school, because the heads of them did their 
duty; and it was no slight credit to Walter and Hen- 
derson that their house stood higher in character than 
any other, although it contained both Harpour and 
Jones. This could not have been the case had not 
those two worthies found a powerful counterpoise in 
two other fifth-form fellows, Franklin and Cradock, 
whose excellence was almost solely due to Walter’s in- 
fluence. Kenrick, on the other hand, never interfered 
in the house, and let things go on exactly as they liked, 
although they were going to rack and ruin. 

Charlie’s sole friend and helper in the house then 
was, not Kenrick, but Bliss. Poor Bliss quite belied 
his name, for his school work, in which he never could 
by any effort succeed, kept him in a state of lugubrious 
disappointment. Bliss lived a dim kind of life, seeing 
all sorts of young boys get above him, and beat him in 
the race, and va,guely groping in thick mental dark- 
ness. Do what he would, the stream of knowledge 
fled from his tantalized lip whenever he stooped to 
drink; and the fruits, which others plucked easily, 
sprang up out of his reach when he tried to touch the 
bough. He was constantly crushed by a desolating 
sense of his own stupidity, and yet his good temper 
was charming under all his trials, and he loved with a 
grateful humility all who tolerated his shortcomings. 
For this reason he had a sincere affection for Hender- 
son, who plagued him, indeed, incessantly, but never 
in an unkind or insulting way ; and who more than 
made up for the teasing by patient and constant help, 
without which Bliss would not have succeeded even as 
well as he did. Bliss was a strong, active fellow, and 
good at the games, so that with most of the school he 
got on very well ; but, nevertheless, he was generally 
set down as nearly half-witted — a mere dolt. Dolt or 
not, he did Charlie inestimable service ; and if any boy 
is in like case with Bliss, let him take courage, for even 
the merest dolt has immense power for good as well as 
for harm, and Bliss extended to Charlie a gentle and 


316 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


manly sympathy which many a clever boy might have 
envied. lie knew that Charlie was ill used. Not be- 
ing in the same dormitory, and joining very little in 
the house concerns, he was not able to interfere very 
directly in his aid; but he never failed to encourage 
him to resist iniquity of every kind. “ Hold out, young 
Evson,” he would often say to him ; “ you’re a good, 
brave little chap, and don’t give in; you’re in the right 
and they in the wrong ; and right is might, be sure of 
that.” 

It was something in those days to meet with appro- 
bation for welldoing among the Noelites ; and Charlie, 
with genuine gratitude, never forgot Bliss’s kind sup- 
port; till Bliss left St. Winifred’s they continued firm 
friends and fast. 

“ Have you made any friends in the house ? ” asked 
Mr. Noel of Charlie on one occasion ; for he often seized 
an opportunity of talking to his younger boys, for whom 
he felt a sincere interest, and whom he would gladly 
have shielded from temptation to the very utmost of 
his power, had he but known that of which he was 
unhappily so ignorant — the bad state of things among 
the boys under his care. 

“ Not many, sir,” said Charlie. 

“Haven’t you? I’m sorry to hear that. I like to 
see boys forming friendships for future life ; and there 
are some very nice fellows in the house. Wilton, for 
instance, don’t you like him ? he’s very idle and volatile, 
I know, but still he seems to me a pleasant boy.” 

Charlie could hardly suppress a smile, but said 
nothing ; and Mr. Noel continued, “ Who is your chief 
friend, Evson, among my boys?” 

“ Bliss, sir,” said Charlie, with alacrity. 

“Bliss!” answered Mr. Noel in surprise. “What 
makes you like him so much? Is he not very back- 
ward and stupid ? ” 

But Charlie would not hear a word against Bliss, 
and speaking with all the open trustfulness of a new 
boy, he exclaimed, “ O sir, Bliss is an excellent fellow ; 
I wish there were many more like him ; he’s a capital 
fellow, sir, I like him very much ; he’s the best fellow 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 317 

in the house, and the only one who stands by me when 
I am in trouble.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found one friend, Evson,” 
said Mr. Noel, “no matter who he is.” 

One way in which Bliss showed his friendship was 
by going privately to Ken rick, and complaining of the 
way in which Charlie was bullied. “ Why don’t you 
interfere, Kenrick?” he asked. 

“ Interfere,. pooh ! It will do the young cub good; 
he’s too conceited, by half.” 

“ I never saw a little fellow less conceited, anyhow.” 

Kenrick stared at him. “ What business is it of 
yours, I should like to know?” 

“It is business of mine; he is a good little fellow, 
and he’s only kicked because the others can’t make 
him as bad a lot as they are themselves ; there’s that 
Wilton ” 

“ Shut up about Wilton, he’s a friend of mine.” 

“ Then more shame for you,” said Bliss. 

“He’s worth fifty such chickens as little Evson, any 
day.” 

“Chickens!” said Bliss, with a tone as nearly like 
contempt as he had ever assumed ; “ it’s clear you don’t 
know much about him ; I wish, Kenrick, you’d do your 
duty more, and then the house would not be so bad as 
it is.” 

Kenrick opened his eyes wide ; he had never heard 
Bliss speak like this before, “ I don’t want the learned, 
the clever, the profound Bliss to teach me my duty,” 
he said, with a proud sneer ; “ what business have 
you to abuse the house, because it is not full of young 
ninnies like Evson ? You’re no monitor of mine, let me 
tell you.” 

“ You may sneer, Kenrick, at my being stupid, if 
you like ; but, for all your cleverness, I 'wouldn’t be 
you for something; and if you won’t interfere, as you 
ought, I will , if I can.” And as Bliss said this, with 
clear flaming anger, and fixed on Kenrick his eyes, 
which were lighted up with honest purpose, Kenrick 
thought he had never seen him look so handsome, or 
so fine a fellow. “ Yes, even he is superior to me now,” 


318 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


he thought, with a sigh, as Bliss left the room. Poor 
Ken — there was no unhappier boy at St. Winifred’s; 
as he ate of those ashy fruits of sin, they grew more 
and more dusty and bitter to his parched taste; as he 
drank of that river of wayward pride, it scorched his 
heart and did not quench his thirst. 



CHARLIE’S MARTYRDOM. 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. 

MARTYRDOM. 

Since thou so deeply dost inquire, 

I will instruct thee briefly why no dread 
Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone 
Are to be feared whence evil may proceed, 

Nought else, for nought is terrible beside. 

Carey’s Dante. 

Gradually the persecutions to which Charlie was 
subjected mainly turned on one point. His tormentors 
were so far tired of bullying him, that they would have 
left him in comparative peace if he would have yielded 
one point — which was this. 

The Noelites were accustomed now and then to have 
a grand evening “ spread ” as they called it, and when 
they had finished this supper, which was usually sup- 
plied by Dan, they generally began smoking, an amuse- 
ment which they could enjoy after the lights were out. 
The smokers used to sit in the long corridor, which, as 
I have said, led to their dormitory, and the scout was 
always posted to warn them of approaching danger ; 
but as they did not begin operations till the master 
had gone his nightly rounds, and were very quiet about 

319 


320 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


it, there was not much danger of their being disturbed. 
Yet although the windows of the corridor and dormi- 
tory were all left wide open, and every other precau- 
tion was taken, it was impossible to get rid of the 
fumes of tobacco so entirely as to avoid all chance of 
detection. They had, indeed, bribed the servants to 
secrecy, but what they feared was being detected by 
some master. The Noelites, therefore, of that dormi- 
tory had been accustomed to agree that if they were 
questioned by any master about the smell of smoking, 
they would all deny that any smoking had taken place, 
the other nine boys in the dormitory, with the doubt- 
ful exception of Elgood, had promised that they would 
stick to this assertion in case of their being asked. 
The question was, “Would Charlie promise the same 
thing ? ” If not, the boys felt doubly insecure — insecure 
about the stability of their falsehood and the secrecy 
of their proceedings. 

And Charlie Evson, of course, refused to promise 
this. Single-handed he fought this battle against the 
other boys in his house, and in spite of solicitation, 
coaxing, entreaty, threats, and blows, steadily declared 
that he was no tell-tale, that he had never mentioned 
anything which had gone on in the house, but that if 
he were directly asked whether a particular act had taken 
place or not, he would still keep silence, but could not 
and would not tell a lie. 

Now some of the house — and especially Mack worth 
and Wilton — had determined, by the help of the rest, 
to crush this opposition, to conquer this obstinacy, as 
they called it ; and, since Charlie’s reluctance could 
not be overcome by persuasion or argument, to break 
it down by sheer force. So, night after night, a num- 
ber of them gathered round Charlie, and tried every 
means which ingenuity or malice could suggest to 
make him yield on this one point ; the more so, because 
they well knew that to gain one concession was prac- 
tically to gain all, and Charlie’s uprightness contrasted 
so unpleasantly with their own base compliances, that 
his mere presence among them became, from this cir- 
£umstance ? a constant annoyance. One boy with a 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


321 


high and firm moral standard, steadily and consistently 
good, can hardly fail to be most unpopular in a large 
house full of bad and reckless boys. 

It was a long and hard struggle ; so long that Charlie 
felt as if it would last forever, and his strength would 
give way before he had wearied out his persecutors. 
For now it seemed to be a positive amusement, a pleas- 
ant occupation to them, night after night, to bully him. 
lie dreaded, he shuddered at the return of even- 
ing ; he knew well that from the time when evening 
work began, till the rest were all asleep, he could look 
for little peace. Sometimes he was tempted to yield. 
He knew that at the bottom the fellows did not really 
hate him, that he might be very popular if he chose, 
even without going to nearly the same lengths as the 
others, and that if he would but promise not to tell, his 
assent would be hailed with acclamations. Besides, 
said the tempter, the chances are very strongly in 
favor of your not being asked at all about the matter, 
so that there is every probability of your not being 
called upon to tell the “ cram ; ” for by some delicate 
distinction the falsehood presented itself under the 
guise of “a cram,” and not of a naked lie; that was a 
word the boys carefully avoided applying to it, and 
were quite angry if Charlie called it by its right name. 
One evening the poor little fellow was so weary and 
hopeless and sad at heart, and he had been thrashed 
so long and so severely, that he was very near yielding. 
A paper had been written, the signing of which was 
tacitly understood to involve a promise to deny that 
there had been any smoking at night if they were 
taxed with it ; and all the boys except Elgood and 
Charlie had signed this paper. But the fellows did 
not care for Elgood; they knew that he dared not 
oppose them long, and that they could make him do 
their bidding whenever the time came. Well, one 
evening, Charlie, in a weak mood, was on the verge of 
signing the paper, and thus purchasing a cessation of 
the long series of injuries and taunts from which he 
had been suffering. He was sitting up in bed, and had 
taken the pencil in hand to sign his name. The boys, 
21 


322 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


in an eager group round him, were calling him a regu- 
lar brick, encouraging him, patting him on the back, 
and saying that they had been sure all along that he 
was a nice little fellow, and would come round at last. 
Elgood was among them, looking on with anxious 
eyes. He had immensely admired Charlie’s brave 
firmness, and nothing but reliance on the strength of 
his stronger will had encouraged him in the shadow 
of opposition. “ If young Evson does it,” he whis- 
pered, “ I will directly.” Charlie caught the whisper ; 
aud in an agony of shame flung away the pencil. He 
had very nearly sinned himself, and forgotten the res- 
olution which had been granted him in answer to his 
many prayers ; but he had seen the effects of bad ex- 
ample, and nothing should induce him to lead others 
with him into sin. “Lead us not into temptation, but 
deliver us from evil,” was the instant supplication 
which rose from his inmost heart, as he threw down 
the pencil and pushed the paper aside. 

“ I cavUt do it,” he said ; “ I must not do it ; I never 
told a lie in my life that I remember. Don’t ask me any 
more.” Instantly the tone and temper of the boys 
changed. A shower of words, which I will not repeat, 
assailed his ears; he was dragged out of bed and 
thrashed more unmercifully than he had ever been 
before. “ You shall give way in the end, mind that,” 
was the last admonition he received from one of the 
bigger fellows, as he dragged himself to his bed sobbing 
for pain, and aching with disquietude of heart. “ The 
sooner it is the better ; for you little muffs and would- 
be saints don’t go down with us.” 

And then for a few evenings, when the candles were 
put out, and the fellows had nothing better to do, it 
used to be the regular thing for some one to suggest, 
“ Come, let’s bait No-thank-you ; it’ll be rare fun.” 
Then another would say, “ Come, No-thank-you, sign 
the paper like a good fellow, and spare yourself all the 
rest.” “ Do,” another insidious friend would add ; “ I 
am quite sorry to see you kicked and thrashed so often.” 
“ I’ll strike a light in one second if you will,” sug- 
gested a fourth. “ No, you won’t? oh, then, look out 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


323 


Master No-thank-you, look out for squalls.” But still, 
however beaten or insulted, holding out like a man, and 
not letting the tears fall if he could help it, though they 
swam in his eyes for pain and grief, the brave boy 
resisted evil, and would not be forced to stain his white 
soul with the promise of a lie. 

There were some who, though they dared not say 
anything, yet looked on at this struggle with mingled 
shame and admiration — shame for themselves, admira- 
tion for Charlie. It could not be but that there were 
some hearts among so many which had not seared the 
tender nerves of pity, and more than once Charlie saw 
kindly faces looking at him out of the cowardly group 
of tormentors, and heard timid words of disapprobation 
spoken to the worst of those who bullied him. More 
often too, some young Noelite who met him during the 
day would seem to address him with a changed nature, 
would speak to him warmly and with friendliness, 
would show by little kind words and actions that he 
felt for him and respected him, although he had not 
courage enough to resist publicly the opposing stream. 
And others of the baser sort observed this. What 
if this one little new fellow should beat them after all, 
and end their domination, and introduce in spite of 
them a truer and better and more natural state of 
things? — it was not to be tolerated for a moment, and 
he must be put down with a strong hand at once. 

Meanwhile Charlie’s heart was fast failing him, dying 
away within him ; for under this persecution his health 
and spirits were worn out. His face, they noticed, was 
far paler than when he came, his looks almost haggard, 
and his manner less sprightly than before. He had 
honorably abstained hitherto from giving Walter any 
direct account of his troubles, but now he yearned for 
some advice and comfort, and went to Walter’s study, 
not to complain, but to ask if Walter thought there 
was any chance of his father removing him to another 
school, because he felt that at St. Winifred’s he could 
neither be happy nor in any way succeed. 

“ Well, Charlie boy, what can I do for you?” said 
Walter, cheerfully pushing away the Greek Lexicon 


324 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


ancl Aristophanes over which he was engaged, and 
wheeling round the armchair to the fire, which he 
poked till there was a bright blaze. 

“ Ain I disturbing you at your work, Walter?” said 
the little boy, whose dejected air his brother had not 
noticed. 

“No, Charlie, not a bit; you never disturb me. I 
was just thinking that it was about time to shut up, 
for it’s almost too dark to read, and we’ve nearly half 
an hour before tea-time ; so come here and sit on my 
knee and have a chat. I haven’t seen you for an age, 
Charlie.” 

Charlie said nothing, but he was in a weary mood, 
and was glad to sit on his brother’s knee and put his 
arm round his neck; for he was more than four years 
Walter’s junior, and had never left home before, and 
that night the homesickness was very strongly upon 
him. 

“ Why, what’s the matter, Charlie boy?” asked 
Walter playfully. “ What’s the meaning of this pale 
face and redeyes? I’m afraid you haven’t found St. 
Winifred’s so jolly as you expected; disenchanted 
already, eh?” 

“ O Walter, I’m very very miserable,” said Charlie, 
overcome by his brother’s tender manner towards him ; 
and leaning his head on Walter’s shoulder he sobbed 
aloud. 

“ What is it, Charlie?” said Walter, gently stroking 
his light hair. “ Never be afraid to tell me anything. 
You’ve done nothing wrong, I hope.” 

“ Oh no, Walter. It’s because I won’t do wrong that 
they bully me.” 

“ Is that it? Then dry your tears, Charlie boy, for 
you may thank God, and nothing in earth or under the 
earth can make you do wrong if you determine not — 
determine in the right way, you know, Charlie.” 

“ But it’s so hard, Walter; I didn’t know it would 
be so very hard. The house is so bad, and no one helps 
me except Bliss. I don’t think you were ever troubled 
as I am, Walter.” 

“ Never mind, Charlie. Only don’t go wrong what- 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


325 


ever they do to you. You don’t know how much this 
will smooth your way all the rest of your school life. 
It’s quite true what you say, Charlie, and the state of 
the school is far worse than I ever knew it ; but that’s 
all the more reason we should do our duty, isn’t it?” 

“ O Walter, but I know they’ll make me do wrong 
some day. I wish I were at home. I wish I might 
leave. I get thrashed and kicked and abused every 
night, Walter, and almost all night long.” 

“ Do you?” asked Walter, in angry amazement. 
“ I knew that you were rather bullied — Eden told me 
that — but I never knew it was so bad as you say. By 
Jove, Charlie, I should like to catch some one bullying 
you, and — well, I’ll warrant that he shouldn’t doit again.” 

“ Oh, I forgot, Walter, I oughtn’t to have told you ; 
they made me promise not. Only it is so wretched.” 

“ Never mind, my poor little Charlie,” said Walter. 
“ Do what’s right and shame the devil. I’ll see if I 
can’t devise some way of helping you; but anyhow, 
hold up till the end of term, and then no doubt father 
will take you away if you still wish it. But what am 
I to do without you, Charlie?” 

“ You’re a dear, dear, good brother,” said Charlie 
gratefully; “ and but for you, Walter, I should have 
given in long ago.” 

“ No, Charlie, not for me, but for a truer friend than 
even I can be, though I love you with all my heart. 
But will you promise me one thing faithfully?” 

“ Yes, that I will.” 

“ Well, promise me then that, do what they will, 
they shan’t make you tell a lie, or do anything else 
that you know to be wrong.” 

“ I’ll promise you, Walter, if I can,” said the little boy 
humbly ; “ but I’ve been doing my best for a long time.” 

“ You couldn't tell a lie, Charlie bov, without being 
found out; that I feel sure of,” said Walter, smiling, as 
he held his brother’s ingenuous face between his hands 
and looked at it. “ I don’t doubt you for an instant; 
but I’ll have a talk with Power about you. As head of 
the school he may be able to do something perhaps. 
It’s Ken rick’s duty properly, but ” 


326 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“Kenrick, Walter? He’s of no use; he lets the 
house do just as it likes,- and I think he must have 
taken a dislike to me, for he turned me off quite 
roughly from being his fag.” 

“Never mind him or any one else, Charlie. You’re 
a brave little fellow, and I’m proud of you. There’s 
the tea-bell ; come in with me.” 

“Ah, Walter, it’s only in the evenings when you’re 
away that I get pitched into. If I were but in the 
same house with you, how jolly it would be.” And 
he looked wistfully after his brother as they parted at 
the door of the hall, and Walter walked up to the 
chief table where the monitors sat, while he went to 
find a place among the boys in his own form and house. 
He found that they had poured his tea into his plate over 
his bread and butter, so he got very little to eat or 
drink that evening. 

It was dark as they streamed out after tea to go into 
the great schoolroom, and he heard Elgood’s tremu- 
lous voice saying to him, “ O Evson, shall you give 
way to-night, and sign ? ” 

“Why to-night in particular, Elgood?” 

“ Because I’ve heard them say that they’re going to 
have a grand gathering to-night, and to make you, and 
me too ; but I can’t hold out as you do, Evson.” 

“ I shall try not to give way ; indeed, I wo?i't be made 
to tell a lie,” said Charlie, thinking of his interview with 
Walter, and the hopes it had inspired. 

“ Then I won’t either,” said Elgood, plucking up 
courage. “ But we shall catch it awfully, both of us.” 

“ They can’t do more than lick us,” said Charlie, 
trying to speak cheerily; “and I’ve been licked so 
often that I’m getting accustomed to it.” 

“ And I’d rather be licked,” said a voice beside them, 
“ and be like you two fellows, than escape being licked, 
and be like Stone and Symes, or even like myself;” 

“Who’s that?” asked Elgood hastily, for it was 
not light enough to see. 

“ Me — Hanley. Don’t you fellows give in ; it will 
only make you miserable, as it has done me.” 

They went in to preparation, which was succeeded 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


327 


by chapel, and then to their dormitories. They un- 
dressed and got into bed, as usual, although they 
knew that they should be very soon disturbed, for va- 
rious signs told them that the rest had some task in 
hand. Accordingly, the lights were barely put out, 
when a scout was posted, the candles were relighted, 
and a number of other Noelites, headed by Mackworth, 
came crowding into the dormitory. 

“Now you, No-thank-you, you’ve got one last chance 
— here’s this paper for you to sign ; fellows have al- 
ways signed it before, and you shall too, whether you 
like or no. We’re not going to alter our rules because 
of you. We want to have a supper again in a day or 
two, and we can’t have you sneaking about it.” Mack- 
worth was the speaker. 

“ I don’t want to sneak,” said Charlie firmly ; “ you’ve 
been making me wretched, and knocking me about, all 
these weeks, and I’ve never told of you yet.” 

“We don’t want any orations; only Yes or No — 
will you sign ? ” 

“ Stop,” said Wilton, “ here’s another fellow, Mac, 
who hasn’t signed;” and he dragged Elgood out of 
bed by one arm. 

“Oh, you haven’t signed, haven’t you? Well, we 
shall make short work of you. Here’s the pencil, 
here’s the paper, and here’s the place for your name. 
Now, you poor little fool, sign without giving us any 
more trouble.” 

Elgood trembled and hesitated. 

“ Look here,” said Mackworth brutally ; “ I don’t 
want to break such a butterfly as you upon the wheel, 
but — how do you like that?” He drew a cane from 
behind his back, and brought it down sharply on 
Elgood’s knuckles, who, turning very white, sat down 
and scrawled his name hastily on the paper; but no 
sooner had he done it than, looking up, he caught 
Charlie’s pitying glance upon him, and running the 
pencil through his signature, said no more, but pushed 
the paper hastily away and cowered down, expecting 
another blow, while Charlie whispered, “ Courage.” 

“ You must take the other fellow first, Mac, if you 


328 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


want to get on,” suggested Wilton. “Evson, as a 
friend, I advise you not to refuse.” 

u As a friend!” said Charlie, with simple scorn, 
looking full at Wilton. “You are no friend of mine; 
and, Wilton, I wouldn’t even now change places with 
you.” 

“Wouldn’t you ? — Pitch into him, Mac. And you,” 
he said to Elgood, “you may wait for the present.” 
He administered a backhander to Elgood as he spoke, 
and the next minute Charlie, roused beyond all bear- 
ing, had knocked him down. Twenty times before he 
would have been tempted to fight Wilton, if he could 
have reckoned upon fair play ; but what he could 
stand in his own person was intolerable to him to 
witness when applied to another. 

Wilton sprang up in a perfect fury, and a fight be- 
gan; but Mackworth at once pulled Charlie off, and 
said, “Fight him another time, if you condescend to 
do so, Raven ; don’t you see now that it’s a mere 
dodge of his to get off. Now, No-thank-you, the time 
has come for deeds ; we’ve had words enough. You 
stand there.” He pushed Charlie in front of him. 
“ Now, will you sign ? ” 

“ Never,” said Charlie, in a low but firm tone. 

“ Then ” 

“ Not with the cane , not with the cane, Mackworth,” 
cried several voices in agitation, but not in time to 
prevent the cane descending with a heavy blow across 
the child’s back. 

Charlie’s was one of those fine, nervous, susceptible 
temperaments, which feel every physical sensation, 
and every mental emotion, with tenfold severity. 
During the whole of this scene, so painfully anticipated, 
in which he had stood alone among a group of boys, 
whose sole object seemed to be to show their hatred, 
and who were twice as strong as himself, his feelings 
had been highly wrought; and though he had had 
many opportunities of late to train his delicate organiza- 
tion into manly endurance, yet the sudden anguish of 
this unexpected blow quite conquered him. A thrilling 
cry broke from his lips, and the next moment, when 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


329 


the cane again tore his shoulders, a fit of violent hys- 
teria supervened, which alarmed the brutes who were 
trying to master his noble resolution. 

And at this crisis the door burst open with a sudden 
crash, and Bliss entered in a state of burning indigna- 
tion, followed more slowly by Kenrick. 

“Oh, I am too late,” he said, stamping his foot; 
“what have you been doing to the little fellow?” and 
thrusting some of them aside, he took up Charlie in his 
arms, and gradually soothed and calmed him till his 
wild sobs and laughter were hushed, while the rest 
looked on silent. But feeling that Charlie shrank as 
though a touch were painful to him, Bliss bared his 
back, and the two blue weals all across it showed him 
what had been done. 

“ Look there, Kenrick,” he said, with great sternness, 
as he pointed to the marks ; and then, laying Charlie 
gently down on his bed, he thundered out, in a voice 
shaken with passion, “You dogs, could you look on 
and allow this ? By heavens, Kenrick, if you mean to 
suffer this, I won’t. Out of my way, you.” Scatter- 
ing the rest before him like a flock of sheep, he seized 
Mackworth with his strong hands, shook him violently 
by both shoulders, and then tearing the cane out of 
his grasp, he demanded, “ Was it you who did this?” 

“What are you about, you Bliss?” said Mackworth, 
with very ruffled dignity. “Mind what you’re after, 
and don’t make such a row, you ass’s head,” he con- 
tinued, authoritatively, “or you’ll have Noel or some 
one in here.” 

“Oh, that’s your tone, you cruel, reprobate bully,” 
said Bliss, supplied by indignation with an unusual 
flow of words; “we’ve had enough of that, and too 
much. You can look at poor little Evson there, and 
not sink into the very earth for shame ! By heavens, 
Belial, you shall receive what you’ve given. I’ll beat 
you as if you were a dog. Take that.” The cut 
which followed showed that he was in desperate 
earnest, and that, however immovable he might gener- 
ally be, it was by no means safe to trifle with him in 
such a mood as this. Mackworth tried in vain to seize 


330 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


the cane ; Bliss turned him round and round as if he 
were a child ; and as it was quite clear that he did not 
mean to have done with him just yet, Mackworth’s 
impudent bravado was changed into abject terror as 
he received a second weighty stroke, so heartily ad- 
ministered that the cane bent round him, in the 
hideous way which canes have, and caught him a blow 
on the ribs. 

Mackworth sprang away, and fled, howling with 
shame and pain, through the open door, but not until 
Bliss had given him two more blows on the back, with 
one of the two cutting open his coat from the collar 
downwards, with the other leaving a mark at least as 
black as that which he had inflicted on the defenceless 
Charlie. 

“ To your rooms the rest of you wretches,” said he, 
as they dispersed in every direction before him. “ Ken- 
rick,” he continued, brandishing the cane, “I may be 
a dolt, as you’ve called me before now, but since you 
won’t do your duty, henceforth I will do it for you.” 

Kenrick slunk off, half afraid that Bliss would apply 
the cane to him ; and, speaking in a tone of authority, 
Bliss said to the boys in the dormitory, “If one of you 
henceforth touches a hair of Evson’s head, look out ; you 
know me. You little scamp and scoundrel Wilton, 
take especial care.” He enforced the admonition by 
making Wilton jump with a little rap of the cane, 
which he then broke and flung out of window. And 
then, his whole manner changing instantly into an al- 
most womanly tenderness, he sat by poor little Charlie, 
soothing and comforting him till his hysterical sobs 
had ceased ; and, when he felt sure that the fit was 
over, gently bade him good-night, and went out, leav- 
ing the room in dense silence, which no one ventured 
to break but the warm-hearted little Hanley, who, 
going to Charlie’s bedside, said — 

“ O Charlie, are you hurt much ?” 

“No, not very much, thank you, Hanley.” 

Hanley pressed his hand, and said, “ You’ve con- 
quered, Charlie; you’ve held out to the end. Oh, I 
wish I were like you.” 



SNOWBALLED ALL THE MONITORS EXCEPT KENRICK. 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. 

A CONSPIRACY FOILED. 

re vityadeg x i ° V0 G 'kltttugl Oafieial . . . 
ug rug a/j.(j)OT£po)oe XlQol ttotojvto dajuetaL — II. xii. 278. 

As the feathery snows 

Fall frequent on some wintry day .... 

The stony volleys flew. — Cowper. 

Yes, Charlie had conquered, thanks to the grace 
that sustained him, and thanks, secondarily, to a good 
home-training, and to Walter’s strong and excellent 
influence. And in gaining that one point he had 
gained all. No one dared directly to molest him 
further, and he had never again to maintain so hard a 
struggle. He had resisted the beginnings of evil ; he 
had held out under the stress of persecution ; and now 
he could enjoy the smoother and brighter waters over 
which he sailed. 

His enemies were for the time discomfited, and even 
the hardy Wilton was abashed. For a week or two 
there was considerably less bravado in his face and 

381 


332 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


manner, and his influence over those of his own age 
was shaken. That little rap of the cane which Bliss 
had given him had a most salutary effect in diminish- 
ing his conceit. Hanley retracted his promise to deny 
all knowledge of anything wrong that went on, and 
openly defied Wilton ; even Elgood ceased to fear him. 
Charlie had felt inclined to cut him, but, with generous 
impulse, he forgave all that was past, and, keeping on 
Civil terms with him, did all he could to draw him to 
less crooked paths. 

Mackworth was so ashamed that he hardly ventured 
to show his face. He had always made Bliss a laugh- 
ing-stock, had nicknamed him Ass’s Head, and had 
taught others to jeer at his backwardness. He had pre- 
sumed on his lazy good-humor, and affected to patron- 
ize and look down on him. An eruption in a long-ex- 
tinct volcano could not have surprised him more than 
the sudden outburst of Bliss’s wrath, and if the two 
blows which he had received as he fled before him in 
sight of the whole house had been branded on his 
back with a hot iron, they could hardly have caused 
him more painful humiliation. For some time he 
slunk about like a whipped puppy, and imagined, not 
without some ground, that no one saw him without an 
inclination to smile. 

Kenrick, too, had reason to blush. Every one knew 
that it was Bliss, and not he, who had rescued the 
house from attaching to its name another indelible 
disgrace; and when he heard the monitors and sixth 
form talking seriously among themselves of the bad 
state into which the Noelites had fallen, he felt that 
the stigma was deserved, and that he, as being the chief 
cause of the mischief, must wear the brand. 

All Ivenrick’s faults and errors had had their root in 
an overweening pride, a pride which grew fast upon 
him, and the intensity of which increased in propor- 
tion as it grew less and less justifiable. But now he 
had suffered a salutary rebuke. He had been openly 
blamed, openly slighted, and openly set aside, and was 
unable to gainsay the justice of the proceeding. He 
felt that with every boy in the school who had any 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


333 


right feeling, Bliss was now regarded as a more up- 
right and honorable — nay, even as a more important 
and influential person than himself. Among other 
mortifications, it galled him especially to hear the warm 
thanks and cordial praise which Power and Walter 
and Henderson expressed, when first they happened to 
meet Bliss. He saw Walter wring his hand, and over- 
heard him saying in that genial tone in which he him- 
self had once been addressed so often — “ Thank you, 
Bliss, a thousand times for saving my dear little brother 
from the hands of those brutes. Charlie and I will 
not soon forget how much we owe you.” Walter said 
it with tears in his eyes, and Bliss answered with a 
happy smile — “Don’t thank me, Walter; I only did 
what any fellow would have done who was worth 
anything.” 

“ And you’ll look after Charlie for me now and then, 
will you ? ” 

“ That I will,” said Bliss; “but you needn’t fear for 
him — he’s a hero, a regular hero — that’s what I call 
him, and I’d do anything for him.” 

So Kenrick, vexed and discontented, almost hid him- 
self in those days in his own study, the victim of that 
most wearing of intolerable and sickening diseases 
— a sense of shame. Except to play football occasion- 
ally, he seldom left his room or took any exercise, and 
fell into a dispirited, broken way of life, feeling un- 
happy and alone. He had no associates now except 
his inferiors, for his conduct had forfeited the regard 
of his equals, and with many of them he was at 
open feud. The only pleasure left to him was desper- 
ately hard work. Not only was he stimulated by a 
fiery ambition, a mad desire to excel in the half-year’s 
competition, and show what he was yet capable of, and 
so to some extent redeem his unhappy position, but 
also his heart was fixed on getting, if possible, the chief 
scholarship of St. Winifred’s — a scholarship sufficiently 
valuable to pay the main part of those college expenses 
which it would be otherwise impossible for his mother 
to bear. He feared, indeed, that he had little or no 
chance against Power, or even against Walter, who 


334 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


were both competitors, but be would not give up all 
hope. His abilities were of the most brilliant order, 
and if he had often been idle at St. Winifred’s, he had, 
on the other hand, often worked exceedingly hard 
during the holidays at Fuzby, where, unlike other boys, 
he had little or nothing else to amuse him. Mrs. Ken- 
rick, sitting beside him silent at her work for long 
hours, would have been glad indeed to see in him more 
elasticity, more kindliness, less absorption in his own 
selfish pursuits ; but she rejoiced that at home at any 
rate, he did not waste his vacant days in idleness, or 
spend them in questionable amusements and undesir- 
able society. 

Almost the only boy of whom he saw much now 
was Wilton, and but for him, I do believe that in those 
days he would have changed his whole tone of thought 
and mode of life. But he had a strange liking for this 
worthless boy, who kept alive in him his jealousy of 
Walter, his opposition to the other monitors, his par- 
tisanship, his recklessness, and his pride. Sometimes 
Kenrick felt this. He saw that Wilton was bad as 
well as attractive, and that their friendship, instead of 
doing Wilton any good, only did himself harm. But 
he could not make up his mind to throw him off, for 
there was no one else who seemed to feel for him as a 
close and intimate friend. Many of Ivenrick’s failings 
rose from that. He had offended, and rejected, and 
alienated his early and true friends, and he felt now 
that it was easier to lose friends than to make them, 
or to recover their affection when it once was lost. 

But the bad set at St. Winifred’s, though in one 
house their influence was weakened, were determined 
not to see it wane throughout the school. Harpour 
and his associates organized a regular conspiracy 
against the monitors. When the first light snow fell 
they got together a very large number of fellows, and 
snowballed all the monitors except Kenrick, as they 
came out of morning school. The exception was very 
much to Kenrick’s discredit, and in his heart he felt 
it to be so. During the first day or two that this lasted 
the monitors took it good-humoredly, returning the 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


3^5 

snowballs, and regarding it as a joke, though an annoy- 
ing one ; but when it became more serious, when some 
snowballs had been thrown at the masters also, and 
when some of the worst fellows began to collect snow- 
balls beforehand and harden them into great lumps 
of ice as hard as stones, and when Brown, who was 
short-sighted, and was therefore least able to protect 
himself, had received a serious blow, Power, by the 
advice of the rest, put up a notice that from that time 
the snowballing must cease, or the monitors would 
have to punish the boys who did it. This notice the 
school tried to resist, but the firmness of Power and 
his friends put a stop to their rebellion. If the notice 
was disregarded he determined, by Walter’s advice, to 
seize the ringleaders, and not notice the younger boys 
whom they incited. Accordingly next morning they 
found the school gathered as usual, in spite of the 
notice, for the purpose of pelting them, and, saying noth- 
ing, they kept their eyes on the biggest fellows in the 
group. A shower of snowballs flew among them, hit- 
ting several of them, and, to the great amusement of 
the school, knocking over several hats into the snow. 

“ Ilarpour,” said Walter very sternly, “ I saw you 
throw a snowball. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself 
that you, a fellow at the head of the eleven, should set 
such a bad example? Don’t suppose that your size or 
position shall get you off. Come before the monitors 
directly after breakfast.” 

“ Hanged if I do,” answered Harpour, with a sulky 
laugh. 

“ Well, I daresay you will be hanged in the long 
run,” was the contemptuous reply ; “ but come, or else 
take the consequences.” 

“ Tracy,” said Henderson, “ I saw you throw a snow- 
ball which knocked off Power’s hat. It was a hard 
one too. You come before the monitors with Har- 
pour.” 

“ I shall be quaite delaighted,” drawled out Tracy. 

“Glad to hear it; I hope you’ll be quaite equally 
delaighted when you leave us.” The mimicry was so 
perfect that all the boys broke into a roar of laughter, 


336 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


which was all the louder because Tracy immediately 
began to chafe and “ smoke.” 

“And, Jones,” said Power, as the laugh against 
Tracy subsided, “I think I saw you throw a snowball 
and hit Smythe. I strongly suspect, too, that you 
were the fellow who hit Brown yesterday. I think 
every one will know, Jones, why you chose Smythe 
and Brown to pelt, instead of any other monitors. 
You too come to the sixth-form room after breakfast.” 

“I didn’t throw one,” said Jones. 

“ You astounding liar,” said Henderson, “ I saw you 
with my own eyes.” 

“ Oh ay ; of course you’ll say so to spite me.” 

“ Spite you,” said Henderson scornfully; “my dear 
fellow, you don’t enter into my thoughts at all. But 
mark you, Master Jones, I know moreover that you’ve 
been the chief getter-up of this precious demonstration. 
You told the fellows that you’d lead them. I’m not 
sure that you didn’t quote to them the lines — 

“ Press where ye see my white plume shine amid the ranks of 
war, 

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Jones.” 

Another peal of laughter followed this allusion to 
Jones’s well-known nickname of White-feather, a nick- 
name earned by many acts of conspicuous cowardice. 

“Hush, Flip,” whispered Power, “we mustn’t make 
this quite a joke. Jones,” he continued aloud, “do 
you deny throwing a snowball just now at Smythe?” 

“ I didn’t throw one,” said Jones, turning pale as he 
heard the hiss, and the murmur of “White-feather 
again,” which followed his denial. 

“ Why, what a pitiful, wretched, sneaking coward 
you are,” burst out Franklin ; “ I heard you egging on 
these fellows to pelt the monitors — they wouldn’t have 
done it but for you and Harpour — and I saw you hit 
Smythe just now. You took care to pelt no one else, 
and now you deny it before all of us who saw you. 
Upon my word, Jones, I feel inclined to kick you, and 
I will too.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


337 


“Stop, Franklin,” said Walter, laying his hands on 
his shoulder, “ leave him to us now. Do you still deny 
throwing, Jones ? ” 

“Well, it was only just a little piece of snow,” said 
Jones, showing in his blotched face every other con- 
temptible passion fused into the one feeling of abject 
fear. 

“ Faugh ! ” said Power, with scorn, and disgust curl- 
ing his lip and burning in his glance; “really, Jones, 
you’re almost too mean and nasty to have any dealings 
with. I don’t think we can do you the honor of con- 
vening you. You shall apologize to Smythe here and 
now, and that shall be enough for you.” 

“ What ! do you hesitate ? ” said Franklin ; “ you don’t 
know when you’re well off. Be quick, for we all want 
our breakfast.” 

“Never mind making him apologize,” said Smythe; 
“ he’s sunk quite low enough already.” 

“ It’s his own doing,” said Walter. “ We can’t have 
lies like his told without a blush at St. Winifred’s. 
Apologize he must and shall.” 

' “ Don’t do it,” said -Mack worth. 

“What!” said Henderson, “is that Mackworth 
speaking? Ah! I thought so — Bliss isn’t here!” 

Henderson’s manner was irresistibly comic; and as 
Mackworth winced and slunk back to the very outside 
of the crowd, the loud laugh which followed showed 
that the complete exposure of the worthlessness of 
their champions had already turned the current of feel- 
ing among the young conspirators, and that they were 
beginning to regret their unprovoked attack on the 
upper boys. 

“ Now, then, Jones, this is what you have to read,” 
said Walter, who had been writing it on a slip of pa- 
per — “ I humbly beg Sinythe’s pardon for pelting him, 
and the pardon of all present for my abominable 
lies.” 

Jones began to mumble it out, but there arose a 
general shout of — 

“On your knees, White-feather ; on your knees, and 
much louder.” 


22 


338 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


Franklin, who was boiling over with anger and con- 
tempt, sprang forward, took Jones by the neck, and 
forced him on his knees in the snow, where he made 
him read the apology, and then let him loose. A 
shower of snowballs followed him as he ran to the 
refuge of the breakfast-hall, for there 
was not a boy present, no matter to 
what faction he belonged, who did not 
feel for Jones a very 
hearty contempt. 

“I hope we shall 
have no more of this, 
boys,” said Power, 
before the rest dis- 
persed. “ There have 
been monitors at St. 

Winifred’s for a hun- 
dred years now, and 
it’s infinitely better 
for the school that 
there should be. I 
suppose you would 
hardly prefer to be at 
the mercy of such a fellow as that,” he said, point- 
ing in the direction of Jones’s flight. “ I don’t know 
why we should be unpopular amongst you. You know 
that not one of us has ever abused his authority, or 
behaved otherwise than kindly to you all. But I am 
sorry to see that you are set on — set on by fellows 
who ought to know better. Don’t suppose any of you 
that they will frighten us from doing what we know 
to be right, or that you can intimidate us when we are 
acting for the good of the school.” 

They cheered his few simple words, for they were 
proud of him as head-monitor. They had never had 
at St. Winifred’s a better scholar, or a more honorable 
boy ; and though Ilarpour and his friends affected to 
sneer at him, Power was now a general favorite, and 
the firm attitude which he assumed increased the 
respect and admiration which he had always in- 




ST. WINIFRED'S. 


339 


“No more notice will be taken of this, you little fel- 
lows,” said Walter to the crowd of smaller boys; “we 
know very well that you have merely been the tools in 
other hands, and that is why we only singled out three 
fellows. I am quite sure you won’t behave in this way 
again ; but if you do, remember we shan’t pass it over 
so lightly.” 

“Come here you, Wilton,” said Henderson, as the 
rest were dispersing. “ You’ve been particularly busy, 
I see. So! six good hard snowballs in your jacket 
pocket, eh? Now, you just employ yourself in collect- 
ing every one of these snowballs that are lying ready 
here, and throw them into the pond. Don’t let me see 
one when I come out. — Belial junior will have to curtail 
his breakfast-time this morning, I guess,” he continued 
to Whalley ; “the young villain ! shall we ever bring 
him to a right mind ? ” 

Wilton, in a diabolical frame of mind, began his 
appointed task, and had just finished it as the boys 
came out of breakfast. “ That will do,” said Hender- 
son. “ I must trouble you for one minute more. 
Come with me.” Shaking with cold and alarm, Wilton 
obeyed, muttering threats of vengeance, and driven 
almost frantic by the laughter with which Henderson 
received them. Henderson walked across to the sixth- 
form room, and then seeing that all the monitors were 
assembled, sent Wilton “to tell his friends, Harpour 
and Tracy, that their presence was demanded immedi- 
ately.” 

“Never mind, Raven,” said Kenrick to him ; “it’s a 
shame of them to bully you.” 

“I have made him collect some snowballs which he 
had a chief hand in making, and with one of which 
yesterday a monitor was seriously hurt ; then I have 
sent him a message for two worthless fellows, whose 
counsels he generally follows ; both of which things I 
have done to teach him a mild but salutary lesson. Is 
that what you call bullying? ” 

“I believe you spite the boy because you know I 
like him. It’s just the kind of conduct worthy of you.” 

“ If it gives you any comfort to say so, Kenrick, pray 


340 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


do ; but let me tell you, that after the way you have 
allowed young Evson and others to be treated in your 
house, the charge of bullying comes with singularly 
ill grace from you.” 

An angry retort sprang to Kenrick’s lips ; but at 
that moment the two offenders came to the door, and 
Power said, “ Hush, you two. We need unity now, if 
ever, and it will be very harmful if these fellows find 
a quarrel going on. Kenrick, I wish you would try 
to ” 

“Oh yes; it’s always Kenrick, of course,” said he 
angrily. “I’ll have nothing to do with your proceed- 
ings ; ” and, rising from his place, he flung out of the 
room, not sorry to be absent from a scene which he 
thought might compromise his popularity with some 
of those who excepted him from the list of the moni- 
tors, whom they professed to consider as their natural 
enemies. 

Harpour and Tracy had thought that when convened 
before the monitors they would have an opportunity 
for displaying plenty of insolence and indifference ; 
but when they found themselves standing in the pres- 
ence of those fifteen upper boys, each one of whom 
was in all respects their superior, all their courage 
evaporated. But they were let off very easily. The 
monitors were content with the complete triumph they 
had gained that morning, and with the disgrace to 
which these fellows had been compelled to submit. 
All that they now required from them was an expres- 
sion of regret for what they had done, and a promise 
not to offend in the same way again ; and when these 
had been extorted, they were dismissed by Power with 
some good advice, and a tolerably stern reprimand. 
Power did this with an ease and force which moved 
the admiration of all his brother monitors; no one 
could have done it as he did it who was not supported 
by the authority of a high and stainless character 
consistently maintained. What he said was not with- 
out effect; even the coarse burly Harpour dared not 
look up, but could only fix his eyes on the floor and 
kick the matting in sullen wrath while this virtuous 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


341 


and noble boy looked at him and rebuked him ; but 
Tracy was more deeply moved. Tracy, weak, foolish, 
and feebly fast as he was, had some elements of good 
and gentlemanly feeling in him, and, with more wisely 
chosen associates, would have developed a much less 
contemptible character. When Power had done speak- 
ing, he looked up and said, without one particle of his 
usual affectation — 

“ I really am sorry for helping to get up this affair. 
I see I’ve been in the wrong, and I beg pardon sincerely. 
You may depend on my not having anything more to 
do with a thing of this kind.” 

“ Thank you, Tracy,” said Walter ; “ that was spoken 
like a man. We’ve known each other for some time 
now, and I wish we could get on more unitedly. You 
might do some good in the school if you chose.” 

“Not much, I’m afraid now,” said Tracy, “but I’ll 
tr(ai)y.” 

“ Well, then, Tracy, we’ll shake hands on that resolve, 
and bygones shall be bygones,” said Henderson. 
“You’ll forgive my making fun of you this morning.” 

He shook hands with Henderson and with Walter, 
while Power, holding out his hand, said, smiling, “ It’s 
never too late to mend.” 

“ No, ” said Tracy, looking at one of his boots, which 
he had a habit of putting out before the other. 

“ He applied your remark to his boots, Power,” said 
Henderson, laughing. “ Did you observe how the crack 
in one of them distressed him ? ” 

So the monitors separated, not without hopes that 
things were beginning to look a little brighter than 
before. 



HARPOUR, JONES, AND MACKWORTH. 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. 

THE FINAL FRACAS. 


Ta yap alaxpa ovSpara, ov ra it pay para, eicjOaoiv avOpunoi ek tov ett'l 
ieXeIotov aioxvvEcrdai. — Procop. De Bell. Goth. iv. 15. 

kkyovoL rovg ra ala x pa tv pay par a ovdpaoi. xPV aro ~ L £ E’rutaXv'KTovraq, 

. . . aOTEl&Q VTTonopc^Eedai. — PlUT. 

Harpour, and all who, like him, had long been en- 
deavoring to undermine the authority which was the 
only safeguard to the morality of the school, felt them- 
selves distinctly baffled. Mackworth had been put to 
utter rout by Bliss, and though he was almost bursting 
with dark spite, would not venture to do much ; Jones 
had become a perfect joke through the whole school, and 
was constantly having white hen’s feathers and goose- 
feathers enclosed to him in little envelopes until he 
was half-mad with impotent wrath ; Harpour himself 
had been made very decidedly to swallow the leek of 
public humiliation ; and even Wilton, in spite of his 
usual self-confidence, began to feel rather small. 

Tracy again had openly deserted them. After the 
interview with Power, Harpour had abused him 
roundly as a turn-coat, and he had told his former 
342 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


343 


associates that he was sorry to have had anything to 
do with their machinations, that they were going all 
wrong, and were ruining the school, and that he at 
any rate felt that he had done mischief enough al- 
ready, and meant to do no more. This proof of their 
failing influence exasperated them greatly. Harpour 
threatened, and Mack worth said all the pungent and 
insulting things he could, contemptuously mimicking 
all Tracy’s dandiacal affectations. Tracy winced under 
this treatment ; high words followed, and after a scene 
of noisy altercation, Tracy broke with his former 
“ party,” and after the quarrel spoke to them no more. 

Dr. Lane, too, had now recovered from his fever, 
and returned to the school. When the reins were in 
his strong hands, the difference was soon perceived. 
The abuses which had crept in during his absence 
were quietly and firmly rectified, and all tendencies to 
insubordination were repressed with a stern and just 
decision which it was impossible to gainsay or to 
resist. The whole aspect of things altered, and, 
lonely as he was among the Noelites, even Charlie 
Evson began to like St. Winifred’s better, and to feel 
more at home in its precincts. 

Still, those who were rebelliously inclined were 
determined not to give in at once, and anxiously looked 
out for some opportunity in which they could have 
Kenrick on their side. If they could but secure this, 
they felt tolerably confident of giving the monitors a 
rebuff, and of carrying with them that numerous body 
in the school who had been taught under their training 
to resist authority on every possible occasion. 

The opportunity was not long wanting. One fine 
afternoon a poor old woman had come up to the play- 
ground with a basket of trifles, by the sale of which 
she hoped to support herself during the unexpectedly 
long absence of a sailor son. Her extreme neatness of 
person, and her quiet, respectable manners had inter- 
ested some of the boys in her appearance ; and when 
she came up to sell the little articles, many of which 
her own industry had made, she generally found ready 
purchasers. Walter knew her well; he had visited 


344 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


her cottage, and had often seen the sailor boy on whose 
earnings she in a great measure depended. This only 
son had now been away for some time on a distant 
voyage, and the poor woman, being pressed for the 
necessaries of life, took her basket once more to the 
playground of St. Winifred’s. Charlie had often 
heard about her from Walter, and he gladly made 
from her a few small purchases, in which other boys 
followed his example. While he was doing this, he 
distinctly saw one of the Noelites — an ill-conditioned 
fellow in the shell, named Fenn — thrust his hand into 
the old woman’s basket, which was now surrounded by 
a large group of boys, and secrete a small bottle of 
scent. Charlie waited a moment, expecting to see 
him pay for it, but Fenn, who fancied that he had been 
unobserved, dropped it quietly into his pocket, and 
stood looking on with an innocent and indifferent air. 

Instantly Charlie’s indignation knew no bounds. 
He could hardly believe his own eyes ; he knew that a 
few of the very worst in the school, and some in his 
own house in particular, would regard this as a venial 
offence. They would not call it stealing but “ bagging 
a thing,” or, at the worst, “ cribbing it ” — concealing 
the villainy under a new name, a name with no very 
odious associations attached to it; just as they called 
lying “cramming,” under which title it sounded much 
less repulsive. In fact, these young Noelites took a 
most Spartan view of these petty larcenies, confining 
the criminality to the incurring of detection. But they 
had never succeeded in making Charlie take this view; 
he never would adopt the change of language by which 
they altered the accepted meaning of words in accord- 
ance with their own propensities and dispositions, and 
to him this particular act which Fenn committed with 
perfect nonchalance, appeared to be not only a theft, 
but a theft accompanied by a cruelty and deadness to 
all sense of pity, which dipped it in the very blackest 
and most revolting dye. He could not restrain, and 
did not attempt to restrain, the passionate contempt 
and horror which he felt for this act. 

“ Fenn,” he said, in a loud and excited voice, not 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


345 


doubting that the sympathies of the others would be 
as warm as his own, “Fenn, you wicked fellow, you 
have stolen that bottle of scent. Here, Mrs. Hart, you 
shan’t suffer at any rate if there is a fellow so base and 
wicked ” ; and he at once pulled out his last half-crown, 
and insisted on her taking it in payment for the stolen 
article. 

Fenn, for the moment, was quite taken aback by the 
scathing flame of Charlie’s righteous anger. If there 
had been none but Noelites there he would have made 
very light of the accusation, and probably have laughed 
it off; but there were others looking on who would, 
he knew, view the transaction in a very different light, 
so he thought that his safest course lay in a flat denial. 
It was not reasonable to expect that he would stick at 
this; a boy who has no scruples about “bagging'’ the 
property of a poverty-stricken old woman is not likely 
to hesitate about telling a “ cram ” to escape exposure. 

“ What’s all this about, you little fool ? I haven’t 
bagged anything.” 

Charlie was still more amazed ; he positively could 
not understand a great brazen lie like this, and yet it 
was impossible to doubt that it was a lie, against the 
evidence of his own senses. 

“You didn’t take that scent-bottle? oh! how can 
you tell such a lie ? I saw you with my own eyes.” 

“ What do I care for you or your eyes?” was the 
only answer which Fenn vouchsafed to return. 

“ You’re always flying out at fellows like a young 
turkey-cock, you No-thank-you,” said Wilton. “ Why 
don’t you thrash him, Fenn, for his confounded impu- 
dence? ” 

“Thrash him yourself if you like, Raven; I don’t 
care the snap of a finger for what he says.” 

“ What do you mean, No- thank-you, by charging 
him with bagging the thing when he says he didn’t?” 
said Wilton in a threatening tone to Charlie; and as 
Charlie took no notice, he enforced the question by a 
slap on the cheek ; for Wilton had old grudges against 
Charlie to pay off. 

“ I didn’t speak to you, Wilton ; but you shan’t hit 


346 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


me for nothing ; you force me to fight against my will,” 
said Charlie, returning the blow; “you can’t say that 
I’m doing it to get off anything this time, as you did 
once before.” 

A long and desperate fight ensued between Charlie 
and Wilton ; too long and too desperate in the opinion 
of several of the bystanders ; but as there was no one 
near who had any authority, nobody liked to interfere. 
So, as they were very equally matched, neither of the 
combatants showed the least sign of giving in, though 
their faces and clothes were smeared with blood. At 
last Henderson and Whalley, who were strolling 
through the playground, caught sight of the crowd, 
and came up to see what was the matter. 

“It’s a fight,” said Henderson ; “young Evson and 
Belial junior; I’d much rather see them fight than see 
them friends.” 

“ Yes, Flip ; but they’ve evidently been fighting 
quite long enough to be good for them. You’re a 
monitor — couldn’t you see if they ought not to be sep- 
arated, and shake hands ? ” 

“ Hallo, stop, you two,” said Henderson, pushing his 
way into the crowd. “ What’s all this about ? let’s see 
that it’s all right.” 

“ It’s a fair fight,” said several ; “ you’ve no right to 
stop it.” 

“ I won’t stop it unless there’s good reason, though 
I think it’s gone on long enough. What began it?” 

“ No-thank-you charged Fenn with ” 

“ Who is No-thank-you ?” asked Whalley. 

“Young Evson, then,” said Mackworth sulkily, 
“charged Fenn with bagging a scent-bottle from the 
old woman’s basket, and then he was impudent, so 
Wilton was going to pitch into him.” 

“ And couldn’t manage it, apparently,” said Whalley; 
“ come, you two, shake hands now.” 

Charlie, after a moment’s hesitation, frankly held 
out his hand ; but Wilton said, “ he’d no right to 
accuse a Noelite falsely as he did.” 

“ It wasn’t falsely,” said Charlie ; “ I saw him take 
it, and a horrid shame it was.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S . 347 

“Is one of your bottles missing, Mrs. Hart?” asked 
Wlialley. 

“Yes, sir; but now young Master Evson has paid 
for it, and I don’t want no more fighting about it, sir, 
please.” 

“ Well, my good woman, there’s something for you,” 
said Henderson, giving her a shilling; “and I hope 
nobody will treat you so badly again ; you’d better go 
now. And now, Fenn, if you didn’t take the bottle, of 
course you won’t mind being searched?” 

“Of course I shall” said Fenn, edging uneasily away 
to try if possible to get rid of the unlucky bottle, which 
now felt as if it burned his pocket. 

“ Stay, my friend,” said Wlialley, collaring him ; “no 
shuffling away, if you please.” 

“You have no right to search me ? ” said Fenn, strug- 
gling in vain under Whalley’s grasp ; “ don’t you fel- 
lows let him search me.” 

The attention of all was now fairly diverted from the 
fight, which, therefore, remained undecided ; while the 
boys, especially the Noelites, formed an angry group 
round Henderson and Wlialley, to prevent them, if 
possible, from any attempt to search Fenn. Mean- 
while, seeing that something was going on, other boys 
came flocking up until a large number of the school 
were assembled there, while Wlialley still kept tight 
hold of Fenn, and Henderson watched that he should 
play no tricks ; the Noelites meantime exclaiming very 
loudly against the supposed infringement of their ab- 
stract rights. 

Kenrick was one of those who had now come up ; 
and as several fellows entreated him to stick up for 
his own house, and not to let Fenn be searched, he 
worked himself into a passion, and pushing into the 
circle, said loudly, “You’ve no right to search him; 
you shan’t do it.” 

“Here’s the head of the school, he shall decide,” 
said Henderson, as Power and Walter approached. 
“ State your own case, Kenrick.” 

“ Well, the case simply is, that a scent-bottle has 


348 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


been taken from Mrs. Hart ; and Fenn doesn’t see— 
nor do I — why he should be searched.” 

“You haven’t mentioned the trifling additional fact 
that young Evson says he saw him take it.” 

“Why, Charlie, what have you been doing?” said 
Walter, looking at his brother’s bruised and smeared 
face in surprise. 

“ Only a fight,” said Charlie. “ I couldn’t help it, 
Walter; Wilton struck me because I charged Fenn 
with taking the bottle.” 

“Are yofi absolutely certain that you saw him, 
Charlie?” 

“ Yes ; I couldn’t possibly be mistaken.” 

“Well then, clearly Fenn must be searched,” said 
Walter. 

“But stop,” said Power; “ aren’t we beginning at 
the wrong end ? Fenn, no doubt, if we ask him quietly, 
will empty his pockets for our satisfaction.” 

“ No, I won’t,” said Fenn, who was now dogged and 
sullen. 

“Well, Kenrick has taken your part; will you let 
him or me search you privately?” 

“ No ! ” 

“Then search him, Henderson.” 

Instantly a rapid movement took place among the 
boys as though to prevent this; but before anything 
could be done, Henderson had seized Fenn by both 
wrists, and Whalley, diving a hand into his right 
pocket, drew out and held up a little ornamental 
scent-bottle ! 

This decisive proof produced for a moment a dead 
silence among the loud voices raised in altercation; 
and then Power said — 

“ Fenn, you are convicted of lying and theft. What 
is St. Winifred’s coming to, when fellows can act like 
this? How am I to punish him?” he asked, turning 
to some of the monitors. 

“ Here and now, red-handed, flagrante delicto ,” said 
Walter. “ Some of these lower fellows need an ex- 
ample.” 

“ I think you are right. Symes, fetch me a cane.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


349 

“You shan’t touch him,” said Kenrick; “you’d no 
right to search him, in the first place.” 

“ I mean to cane him, Kenrick. Who will prevent 
me ? ” 

“We will,” said several voices; among which Har- 
pour’s and Mackworth’s were prominent. 

“You mean to try and prevent it by force?” 

“Yes.” 

“And, Kenrick, you abet this?” 

“I do,” said Kenrick, who had lost all self-control. 

“ I shall do it, nevertheless ; it is my plain duty.” 

“ And I recommend you all not to interfere,” said 
Walter; “for it must and shall be done.” 

“ Ilarpour,” said Franklin, “ remember, if you try 
force, I for one am against you the moment you stir.” 

“And I,” said Bliss, stepping in front of Power; 
“and I,” said Eden, Cradock, Anthony, and others — 
among whom was Tracy — taking their places by the 
monitors, and forming a firm front together. 

Symes brought the cane. Power took it, and an- 
other monitor held Fenn firmly by the wrists. At the 
first stroke, some of the biggest fifth-form fellows made 
a rush forward, but they were flung back, and could 
not break the line, while Harpour measured his full 
length on the turf from the effects of the buffet which 
Franklin dealt him. Kenrick was among those who 
pressed forward ; and then, to his surprise and shame, 
Walter, who was the stronger of the two, grasped him 
by the shoulder, held him back, and said in a low tone, 
firm yet kind, “ You must excuse my doing this, Ken- 
rick; but otherwise you might suffer for it, and I 
think you will thank me afterwards.” 

Kenrick was astonished, and he at once desisted. 
Those were the first and only words which Walter 
had spoken to him, the only time Walter had touched 
him, for nearly three years; and in spite of all the 
abuse, calumny, and opposition which Walter had en- 
countered at Iiis hands, Kenrick could not but feel 
that they were wise words, prompted, like the action 
itself, by the spirit of true kindness. He said nothing, 
but abruptly turned away and left the ground. 


350 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


The struggle had not lasted a moment, and it was 
thoroughly repulsed. There could not be the least 
doubt of that, or of the fact that those who were on 
the side of righteous order outnumbered and exceeded 
in strength the turbulent malcontents. Power inflicted 
on Fenn a severe caning there and then. The attempt 
to prevent this, audacious and unparalleled as it was, 
afforded by its complete failure yet another proof that 
things were coming round, and that these efforts of the 
monitors to improve the tone of the lower boys would 
tell with greater and greater force. Even the char- 
acter of the Noelites was beginning to improve ; in that 
bad house a single little new boy had successfully 
braved an organized antagonism to all that was good, 
and by his victorious virtuous courage had brought 
over others to the side of right, triumphing, by the 
mere force of good principle, over a banded multitude 
of boys far older, abler, and stronger than himself. 

So that now Harpour, Mackworth, and Jones were 
confined more and more to their own society, and were 
forced to keep their misconduct more and more to 
themselves. They sullenly admitted that they were 
foiled and thwarted, and from that time forward left 
the school to recover as fast as it could from their 
vicious influence. Among their other consolations — 
for they found themselves shunned on all sides — they 
proposed to go and have a supper at Dan’s. One 
day, before the events last narrated, Power had seen 
them go in there. He had sent for them at once, 
and told them that they must know how strictly 
this was forbidden, what a wretch Dan was, and how 
ruinous such visits to his cottage must be. They 
knew well that if he informed of them they would be 
instantly expelled, and entreated him with very serious 
earnestness to pass it over this time, the more so be- 
cause they had no notion that any monitor would ever 
tell of them, because , since lie had been a monitor , Ken- 
rick had accoynpanied them there. Shocked as he was 
to hear this, it had determined Power not to report 
them, on the condition, which he made known to 
the other monitors, and of which he specially and 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


351 


pointedly gave warning to Kenrick, that they would 
not so offend again. This promise they wilfully broke, 
feeling perfectly secure, because Dan’s cottage was at 
a remote and lonely part of the shore, where few boys 
ever walked, and where they had very little chance of 
being seen, if they took the precaution of entering by 
a back gate. But within a week of Fenn’s thrashing, 
Walter was strolling near the cottage with Eden and 
Charlie, and having climbed the cliff a little way to 
pluck for Eden (who had taken to botany) a flower of 
the yellow horned poppy which was waving there, he 
saw them go in to Dan’s door, and with them — as he 
felt sure — -little Wilton. The very moment, however, 
that he caught sight of them, the fourth bov, seeing 
him on the cliff, had taken vigorously to his heels and 
scrambled away behind the rocks. Walter had neither 
the wish nor the power to overtake him, and as he 
had not so much seen Wilton as inferred with toler- 
able certainty that it was he, he only reported Harpour, 
Mackworth, and Jones to Dr. Lane ; at the same time 
sending for Wilton to tell him of his suspicion and to 
give him a severe and earnest warning. 

Dr. Lane, on the best possible grounds, had repeat- 
edly announced that he would expel any boy who had 
any dealings with the scoundrel Dan. He was not 
likely to swerve from that declaration in any case, 
still less for the sake of boys whose school career had 
been so dishonorable and reprobate as that of these 
three offenders. They were all three publicly expelled 
without mercy and without delay ; and they departed, 
carrying with them, as they well deserved to do, the 
contempt and almost the execration of the great ma- 
jority of the school. 

In the course of their examination before the head- 
master, Jones, with a meanness and malice thoroughly 
characteristic, had said, “ that he did not know there 
was any harm in going to Dan’s, because Kenrick, one 
of the monitors, had done the same thing.” At the time, 
Dr. Lane had contemptuously silenced him, with the 
remark, “that he would gain nothing by turning in- 
former ; ” but he had reason to suspect, and even to 


352 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


know, that what Jones said was in this instance true. 
He knew, too, from other quarters how unsatisfactorily 
Kenrick had been going on, and the part he had taken 
in several acts of insubordination and disobedience. 
Accordingly, no sooner had Harpour, Jones, and Mack- 
worth been banished from St. Winifred’s than he sent 
for Kenrick, and administered to him a reprimand so 
uncompromising and stern that Kenrick never forgot 
it to the end of his life. After upbraiding him for those 
many inconsistencies and follies which had forfeited 
the strong esteem and regard which he once felt for 
him, he pointed out finally how he was wasting his 
school-life, and how little his knowledge and ability 
could redeem his neglect of duty and betrayal of trust ; 
and he ended by saying, “All these reasons, Kenrick, 
have made me seriously doubt whether I should not 
degrade you altogether from your position of monitor 
and head of a house. It would be a strong step, but 
not stronger than you deserve. I am alone prevented 
by a deep and sincere wish that you should yet recover 
from your fall; and that, by knowing that some slight 
trust is still reposed in you, you may do something to 
prove yourself worthy of that trust, and to regain our 
confidence. I content myself, therefore, with putting 
you from your present place to the lowest on the list 
of monitors — a public mark of my displeasure, which 
I am sure you will feel to be just; and I must also 
remove you from the headship of your house — a post 
which I grieve to know that you have very grievously 
misused. I shall put Whalley in your place, as it hap- 
pens that no monitor can be conveniently spared. He, 
therefore, is now the head of Mr. Noel’s house; and, 
so far, you will be amenable to his authority, which, I 
hope, you will not attempt to resist.” 

Kenrick, very full of bitter thoughts, hung his head 
and said nothing. To know Dr. Lane was to love and 
to respect him ; and this poor fatherless boy did feel 
very great pain to have incurred his anger. 

“ I am unwilling, Kenrick,” continued the Doctor, 
“to dismiss you without adding one word of kindness. 
You know that I have your welfare very closely at 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


353 


heart, and that I once felt for you a warm and per- 
sonal regard ; I trust that I may yet be able to bestow 
it upon you again. Go and use your time better; re- 
member that you are a monitor; remember that the 
well being of many others depends in no slight measure 
on your conscientious discharge of your duties ; check 
yourself in a career which only leads fast to ruin ; and 
thank God, Kenrick, that you are not actually expelled 
as those three boys have been, but that you have still 
time and opportunity to amend, and to win again the 
character you once had.” 

Turned out his of headship to give way to a fifth-form 
boy, turned down to the bottom of the monitors, poor 
Kenrick felt unspeakably degraded; but he was forced 
to endure a yet more bitter mortification. Before go- 
ing to Dr. Lane he had received a message that he was 
wanted in the sixth-form room, and, with a touch of 
his old pride, had answered, “Tell them I won’t come.” 
Hardly had lie reached his own study after leaving the 
Doctor, when Henderson entered with a grave face, and 
saying, “ I am sorry, Kenrick, to be the bearer of this,” 
handed to him a folded sheet of paper. Opening it, he 
found that, at tlie monitors’ meeting, to which he had 
been summoned, an unanimous vote of censure had been 
passed upon him in his absence, for the opposition 
which he had always displayed against his colleagues, 
and for the disgraceful part which he had taken in at- 
tempting to coerce them by force in the case of Fenn. 
The document concluded, “We are therefore obliged, 
though with great reluctance, to take the unusual step 
of recording in the monitors’ book this vote of censure 
against Kenrick, fourth monitor, for the bad example 
he has set and the great harm he has done, in at once 
betraying our interests and violating the first condi- 
tions on which lie received his own authority : and we 
do this, not in anger, but solely in the hope that this 
unanimous condemnation of his conduct by his coad- 
jutors may serve to recall him to a sense of his duty.” 

Appended were the names of all the monitors; — but, 
no ; as he glanced over the names he saw that one was 
absent, the name of Walter Evson. Evidently, it was 


354 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


not because Walter disapproved of the measure, for, 
had this been the case, Ken rick knew that his name 
would have appeared at the end as a formal dissen- 
tient; — no, the omission of his name was due, Kenrick 
saw, to that same high reserve, and delicate, courteous 
consideration which had marked the whole of Walter’s 
behavior to him since the day of their disastrous quarrel. 

Kenrick appreciated this delicacy, and his eyes were 
suffused with tears. Wilton, somewhat cowed by re- 
cent occurrences, was the only boy in his study at the 
time, and though Kenrick would have been glad to 
have some one near him to whom he could talk of 
the disgraces which had fallen so heavily upon him, 
and to whom he could look for a little sympathy and 
counsel, yet to Wilton he felt no inclination to be at 
all communicative. There was, indeed, something 
about Wilton which he could not help liking, but there 
was and could be no sort of equality between them. 

“Ken,” said Wilton, “do you remember telling me 
the other day that I was shedding crocodile tears ? — 
what are crocodile tears ? I’ve always been wanting 
to ask you.” 

“ It’s just a phrase, Ra, for sham tears ; and it was 
very rude of me, wasn’t it ? Herodotus says something 
about crocodiles ; perhaps he’ll explain it for us% I’d 
look and see if I had my Herodotus here, but I lost it 
nearly three years ago.” 

By one of those curious coincidences which look 
strange in books, but which happen daily in common 
life, Tracy at this moment entered with the lost Herod- 
otus in his hand, saying — - 

“ Kenrick, I happened to be hunting out the class- 
room cupboard just now for a book I’d mislaid, when 
I found a book with your name in it — an Herodotus ; 
so I thought I’d bring it you.” 

“By Jove!” said Wilton, “talk of ” 

“ Herodotus, and he’ll appear,” said Kenrick ; “ how 
very odd. It’s mine, sure enough. I lost it, as I was 
just telling Wilton, I don’t know how long ago. Now, 
Raven, I’ll find you all he says about crocodiles.” 

“ Before you look, may I tell you something ; ” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 355 

asked. Tracy. “ I wanted an opportunity to speak with 
you.” 

“Well?” 

“ Do you mind coming out into the court, then ? ” 
said Tracy, glancing at Wilton. 

“Oh, never mind me,” said Wilton ; “I’ll go out.” 

“I shan’t be a minute,” said Tracy, “and then you 
can come back. What I wanted to say, Kenrick, was 
only this, and it was a great shame of me not to tell 
you before ; but I see now that I’ve been a poor tool in 
the hands of those fellows. Jones made you believe, 
you know, that Evson had told him all about your home 
affairs, and about the pony-chaise, and so on,” said 
Tracy, hurrying over the obnoxious subject. 

“Yes, yes,” said Kenrick impatiently. 

“ Well, he never did, you know. I’ve heard Jones 
confess it often with his own lips.” 

“ How can I believe him in one lie more than another, 
then ? I believe the fellow couldn’t open his lips with- 
out a lie flying out of them. How could Jones pos- 
sibly have known about it any other way? There was 
only one fellow who could have told him, and that was 
Evson. Evson must have told me a lie when he said 
that he’d mentioned it to no one but Power.” 

“ I don’t believe Evson ever told a lie in his life,” 
said Tracy. “ However, I can explain your difficulty ; 
Jones was in the same train as Evson ; he saw you and 
him ride home ; and, staying at Littleton, the next 
town to where you live, he heard all about you there. 
I’ve heard him say so.” 

“ The black-hearted brute ! ” was all that Kenrick 
could ejaculate, as he paced up and down his study 
with agitated steps.* “ O Tracy, what an utter, utter 
ass, and fool, and wretch I’ve been.” 

“ So have I,” said Tracy; “but I’m sorry now, and 
hope to improve. Better late than never. Good-morn- 
ing, Kenrick.” 

When Wilton returned to the study a quarter of an 
hour after, he found Kenrick’s attention riveted by a 
note which he held in his hand, and which he seemed to 
be reading with his whole soul. So absorbed was he that 
he was not even disturbed by Wilton’s entrance. List- 


356 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


lessly turning over the pages of his Herodotus to divert 
his painful thoughts by looking for the passage about 
the crocodiles, Kenrickhad found an old note directed to 
himself. Painful thoughts, it seems, were to give him 
no respite that day ; how well he knew that handwrit- 
ing, altered a little now, more firm and mature, but 
even then a good, though a boyish hand. He tore it 
open ; it was dated three years back, and signed Wal- 
ter Evson. It was the long-lost note in which Walter, 
once or twice rebuffed, had frankly and even earnestly 
asked pardon for any supposed fault, and begged for an 
immediate reconciliation; — the very note which Wal- 
ter of course imagined that Kenrick had received, and 
from his not taking any notice of it, inferred that all 
hope of renewing their friendship was finally at an end. 
Kenrick could not help thinking how very different a 
great part of his school-life would have been had that 
note but come to hand ! 

He saw it all now as clearly as possible — his haste, his 
rash and false inferences, his foolish jealousy, his impet- 
uous pride, his quick degeneracy, all the mischief he had 
caused, all the folly he had done, all the time he had 
wasted. Disgraced, degraded, despised by the best fel- 
lows in the school, censured unanimously by his col- 
leagues, given up by masters whom he respected, with- 
out a single true friend, grievously and hopelessly in the 
wrong from the very commencement, he now felt bowed 
down and conquered , and, to Wilton’s amazement, he 
laid his head upon his arms on the table before him 
without saying a word, and broke into a heavy sob. 
If his conscience had not declared against him, he could 
have borne everything else; but when conscience is 
our enemy, there is no chance of a mindat ease. Ken- 
rick sat there miserable and self-condemned ; he had 
injured his friend, injured his fellows, and injured, most 
deeply of all, himself. For, as the poet sings — 

He that wrongs his friend 
Wrongs himself more ; and ever bears about 
A silent court of justice in his breast ; 

Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemned, 

And that drags down his life. 



“I FEAR, SIR, I VERY LITTLE DESERVE YOUR APPROVAL.” 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. 


IN THE DEPTHS. 

How easy to keep free from sin, 

How hard that freedom to recall ! 

For dreadful truth it is, that men 
Forget the heavens from which they fall. 

Cov. Patmore. 

It may be thought strange that Kenrick did not at 
once, while his heart was softened, and when he saw 
so clearly how much he had erred, go there and then 
to Walter, confess to him that everything was now ex- 
plained, that he had never received his last note, and 
that, for his own sake, he desired to be restored, as far 
as was possible, to his former footing. If that had not 
been for Kenrick a period of depression and ill-repute, 
he would undoubtedly have done so; but he did not 
like to go, now that he was in disgrace, now that his 
friendship could do no credit, and, as he feared, confer 
no pleasure on any one, and under circumstances which 
would make it appear that he had changed his views 

357 


358 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


under the influence of selfish interest, rather than of 
true conviction or generous impulse. He thought, too, 
that friendship lost was like water spilt, and could not 
be gathered up again ; that it was like a broken thread 
which cannot again be smoothly re-united. So things 
remained on the same footing as before, except that 
Kenrick’s whole demeanor was changed for the bet- 
ter. He bore his punishment in a quiet and manly 
way ; took his place without a murmur below Hender- 
son at the bottom of the monitors ; did not by any 
bravado attempt to conceal that he felt justly humili- 
ated, and gave Whalley his best assistance in govern- 
ing the Noelites, and bringing them back by slow but 
sure degrees to a better tone of thought and feeling. 
Towards Walter especially his whole manner altered. 
Hitherto he had made a point of always opposing him, 
and taking every opportunity to show him a strong 
dislike. If Walter had embraced one opinion at a 
monitors’ meeting, it was quite sufficient reason for 
Kenriek to support another; if Walter had spoken on 
one side at the debating society, Kenriek held it to be 
a logical consequence that, whatever he thought, he 
should speak on the other, and use his powers of speak- 
ing, which were considerable, to throw on Walter’s 
illustrations and arguments all the ridicule he could. 
All this folly and virulence was now abandoned; the 
swagger which Kenriek had adopted was from that 
-time entirely laid aside. At the very next meeting of 
the debating society he spoke, as indeed he generally 
thought, on the same side with Walter ; and spoke, not 
in his usual flippant, conceited style, but more seriously 
and earnestly, treating Walter’s speech with approval 
and almost with deference. Every one noticed and 
rejoiced in this change of manner, and none more so 
than Walter Evson and Power. 

Kenriek finished with these words — “ Gentlemen, be- 
fore I sit down I have a task to perform, which, how- 
ever painful it may be to me, it is due to you that I 
should not neglect. I may do it now, because I see 
that none but the sixth form are present, and because 
I may not have another early opportunity. I have in- 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


359 


curred, as you are all well aware, an unanimous vote 
of censure from my colleagues — unanimous, although, 
through a delicacy which I am thankful to be still capa- 
ble of keenly appreciating, the name of one ” — the word 
“ friend ” sprang to his lips, but humility forbade him 
to adopt it, and he said, — “the name of one monitor 
is absent from the appended signatures. Gentlemen, I 
do not like public recantations or public professions, 
but I feel it my duty to acknowledge without palliation 
that I feel the censure to have been deserved.” His 
voice faltered with emotion as he proceeded. “I have 
been misled, gentlemen, and I have been laboring for 
a long time under a grievous mistake, which has led 
me to do much injustice and inflict many wrongs ; for 
these errors I now ask the pardon of all, and especially 
of those who are most concerned. Your censure, gen- 
tlemen, concluded with a kind and friendly wish, and I 
cannot trust myself to say more now than to echo that 
wish with all my heart, and to hope that ere long the 
efforts which I shall endeavor to make may succeed 
in persuading you to give me back your confidence and 
esteem, and to erase from the book the permanent 
record of your recent disapproval.” 

Every one present felt how great must have been the 
suffering which could wring such an expression of 
regret from a nature so proud as Ken rick’s. They 
listened in silence, and when he sat down greeted him 
with an applause which showed how readily he might 
win their regard ; while many of them came round him 
and shook hands with warmth. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Power, rising, “ I am sure we all 
feel that the remarks we have just heard do honor to 
the speaker. I hold in my hand the monitors’ book, 
open at the page on which our censure was written. 
After what we have heard there can be no necessity 
why that page should remain where it is for a single 
day. I beg to move that leave may be given me to 
tear it out at once.” 

“ And I am eager to second the motion,” said Hen- 
derson, starting up at the same moment with several 
others ; “ and, Kenrick, — if I may break through, on 


360 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


such an occasion as this, our ordinary forms, and ad- 
dress you by name,— I am sure you will believe that 
though I have very often opposed you, no one will be 
more glad than myself to welcome you back as a friend, 
and to hope that you may soon be, what you are so 
capable of being, not only our greatest support, but 
also one of the brightest ornaments of our body.” He 
held out his hand, which Kenrick readily grasped, 
whispering, with a sigh, “Ah, Flip, how I wish that 
we had never broken with each other! ” 

The proposal was carried by acclamation, and Power 
accordingly tore out the sheet and put it in the fire. 
And that night brightened for Kenrick into the dawn 
of better days. Twenty times oyer Walter thought 
that Kenrick was going to speak to him — for his man- 
ner was quite different; but Kenrick, though every 
particle of ill-will had vanished from his mind, and 
had been replaced by his old unimpaired affection, put 
off the reconciliation until he should have been able in 
some measure to recover his old position, and to meet 
his friend on a footing of greater equality. 

Do not let any one think that his reformation was 
too easy. It took him long to conquer himself, and he 
found the task sorely difficult ; but after many failures 
and relapses, the words of another who had sinned and 
suffered three thousand years ago, and who, after 
many a struggle, had discovered the true secret, came 
home to Kenrick and whispered to him the message — 
“ Then I said, It is mine own infirmity : but I will re- 
member the years of the right han d of the Most Highest .” 

It was not long before one great difficulty confronted 
him, the consequence of former misdeeds, and put 
him under circumstances which demanded the whole 
courage of his character, and thoroughly tested the 
sincerity of his repentance. 

After Mack worth’s expulsion, and under Whalley’s 
good government, the state of the Noelites greatly im- 
proved. Charlie Evson, for whom, now, by-the-bye, 
Kenrick always did everything that lay in bis power, 
became far more a model among the younger boys than 
Wilton had ever been, and there was a final end of 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


361 


suppers, smoking parties, organized cribbing, and rec- 
ognized “ crams.” But just as the house was recover- 
ing lost ground, and had ceased to be quite a byword 
in the school, it was thrown into consternation by a 
long-continued series of petty thefts. 

Small sums were extracted from the boys’ jacket- 
pockets after they had gone to bed; from the play- 
boxes which were not provided with good locks and 
keys ; from the private desks in the class-rooms, from 
the dormitories, and from several of the studies. There 
was no clue to the offender, and first of all suspicion 
fell strongly on the new boy, little Elgood. A few 
trifling items of circumstantial evidence seemed to 
point him out, and it began to be gradually whispered, 
no one exactly knew how or by whom, that he must 
be the guilty boy. Hints were thrown out to him to 
this effect ; little bits of paper, on which were written 
the words “Thou slmlt not steal,” or “The devil will 
have thieves,” were dropped about in his books and 
wherever he was likely to find them, and whenever 
the subject was brought on the tapis his manner was 
closely watched. The effect was unsatisfactory ; for 
Elgood was a timid, nervous boy, and the uneasiness 
to which this nervousness gave rise was set down as a 
sign of guilt. At length a sovereign and a half were 
stolen out of Whalley’s study, and as Elgood, being 
Whalley’s fag, had constant access to the study, and 
might very well have known that Whalley had the 
money, and in what place he kept it, the prevalent sus- 
picions were confirmed. The boys, with their usual 
thoughtless haste, leapt to the conclusion that he must 
have been the thief. 

The house was in a perfect ferment. However lightly 
one or two of them, like Fenn, may have thought about 
taking trifles from small tradesmen, there was not a 
single one among them, not even Fenn himself, whose 
morality did not brand this thieving from school- 
fellows as wicked and mean. The boys felt, too, that 
it was a stigma on their house, and unhappily just at 
the time when the majority were really anxious to 
raise their corporate reputation. Every one was filled 


362 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


with annoyance and disgust, and felt an anxious de- 
termination to discover and give up the thief. 

At last the suspicions against Elgood proceeded so 
far that out of mere justice to him the heads of the 
house, Whalley, Kenrick, and Bliss, thought it right 
that he should be questioned. So, after tea, all the 
house assembled in the class-room, and Elgood was 
formally charged with the delinquency, and questioned 
about it — Wilton, in particular, urging him in almost 
a bullying tone to surrender and confess. The poor 
child was overwhelmed with terror — cried, blushed, 
answered incoherently, and lost his head, but would 
not for a moment confess that he had done it, and pro- 
tested his innocence with many sobs and tears. 

•‘Well, I suppose if he persists in denying it, we 
can’t go any further,” said Kenrick; “but I’m afraid, 
Elgood, that you must have had something to do with 
it, as every one seems to see ground for suspecting you.” 

“Oh, I hadn’t, I hadn’t; indeed I hadn’t,” wailed 
Elgood ; “ I wish you wouldn’t say so, Kenrick ; indeed 
I’m innocent, and I’d rather write home for the money 
ten times over than be suspected.” 

“So would any one, you little fool,” said Wilton. 

“ Don’t bully him in that way, Wilton,” said 
Whalley ; “ it’s not the way to get the truth out of him. 
Elgood, I should have thought you innocent, if you 
didn’t behave so oddly.” 

“ May I speak ? ” modestly asked a new voice. The 
speaker was Charlie Evson. 

“ Yes, certainly,” said Kenrick, in an encouraging 
tone. 

“ Well then, please, Kenrick, and the whole of you, 
I think you have had the truth out of him ; and I think 
he is innocent.” 

“Why, Charlie?” said Whalley; “what makes you 
think so?” 

“ Because I’ve asked him, and talked to him privately 
about it,” said Charlie ; “ when you frighten him he gets 
confused, and contradicts himself, but he can explain 
whatever looks suspicious if you ask him kindly and 
quietly.” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


363 


“Bosh ! ” said Wilton ; “ who frightened him ?” 
“Silence, Wilton,” said Whalley. “Well, Charlie, 
will you question him now for us ? ” 

“ That I will,” said Charlie, advancing and putting 
his hand kindly on Elgood’s shoulder, as lie seated him- 
self on the desk by which Elgood was standing. “ Will 



you tell us, as I ask you, all you told me this morn- 
ing? ” 

“ Yes,” said Elgood eagerly, while his whole manner 
changed from nervous tremor to perfect simplicity 
and quiet, now that he had a friend to stand by him. 

“ Well, now, about the money you’ve been spending 
lately?” questioned Charlie, with a smile. “You 
usen’t to be so flush of cash, you know, a month ago.” 

“I can tell you,” answered Elgood ; “I had a very 
large present — large for me, I mean — three weeks ago. 
My father sent me a pound, because it was my birth- 
day, and my big brother and aunt sent me each a pound 
too.” 

“ I can answer for that being perfectly true,” said 
Charlie, “for I went with my brother to the post-office 
this afternoon and asked, and found that Elgood had 
had three money-orders changed there. And now, 
Elgood, can you trust me with your purse?” 

“ Of course I can, Charlie,” said Elgood, readily pro- 
ducing it, and almost forgetting that the others were 
present. 

“ Ah, well, now you see I’m going to rifle it. Ah! 


364 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 


what have we here? why, here’s a whole sovereign, 
and eight shillings ; that looks suspicious, doesn’t it?” 
said Charlie archly. 

“No,” said Elgood, laughing ; “you went with me 
yourself when I bought my desk for eighteen shillings, 
and the rest ” 

“ All right,” said Charlie. “ Look, you fellows : 
Elgood and I put down this morning the other things 
he’s bought, and they come to fourteen shillings. I 
know they’re right, for I didn’t like Elgood to be 
wrongly suspected, so Walter went with me to the 
shops; indeed it was chiefly spent at Coles’s” — at 
which remark they all laughed, for Coles’s was the 
favorite “ tuck-shop ” of the boys. “ Well, now, £1:8: 
0-j-18-(-14 makes £3, the sum which Elgood received 
from home. Is that plain ? ” 

“ As plain as a pikestaff,” said Bliss ; “ and you’re a 
little brick, Evson ; and it’s a chouse if any one sus- 
pects Elgood any more.” 

Wilton suggested something about Elgood being 
Whalley’s fag. 

“Shame, Raven,” said Kenrick; “ why, what a sus- 
picious fellow you must be ; there’s no ground what- 
ever to suspect Elgood now.” 

“ I only want the fellow found out for the honor of 
the house,” said Wilton, with a sheepish look at this 
third rebuff. 

“Oh, I forgot about that for the moment,” said 
Charlie; “Whalley, please, you know the time, don’t 
you, when the money was taken from your desk?” 

“Yes ; it must have been between four and six, for 
I saw it safe at four, and it was gone when I came 
back after tea.” 

“Then all right,” said Charlie joyfully, “for at that 
very time, all of it, Elgood was in my brother’s study 
with me, learning some lessons. Now then, is Elgood 
clear?” 

“As clear as noonday,” shouted several of them, 
patting the poor boy on the head. 

“And really, Charlie, we’re all very much obliged 
to you,” said Whalley, “ for setting this matter straight. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 865 

But now, as it isn't Elgood, who is the thief? We 
must all set ourselves to discover.” 

“ And we shall discover,” said Bliss ; “ he’s probably 
here now. Who is it?” he asked, glancing round. 
“Well, whoever it is, I don’t envy him his sensations 
at this minute.” 

The meeting broke up, and Kenrick accompanied 
Whalley to his study to concert further measures. 

“ Have you any suspicion at all about it, Whalley?” 

“ Not the least. Have you ? No ? Well, then, what 
shall we do ?” 

“ Why, the thief isn’t likely to visit your study 
again, Whalley; very likely he’ll come to mine. Sup- 
pose we put a little marked money in the secret drawer. 
It’s rather a joke to call it the secret drawer, for there’s 
no secret about it : anyhow, it’s an open secret.” 

“ Very good ; and then ? ” 

“ Why, you know the money generally goes at one 
particular time on half-holidays. I’m afraid the rogue, 
whoever he is, has got a taste for it by this time, and 
will come to money like a fly to a jam-pot. Now, out- 
side my room, a few yards off, is the shoe-cupboard ; 
what if you and I, and a few others, agree to shut our- 
selves up there in turns, now and then, on half-holi- 
days between roll-call and tea-time?” 

“ I see,” said Whalley; “ well, it’s horridly unpleas- 
ant, but I’ll take my turn first. Isn’t the door usually 
locked though ? ” 

“ Yes, but so much the better; we can easily get it 
left open, and the thief won’t suspect an ambuscade. 
He must be found out, for the sake of all the boys who 
are innocent, and to wipe out the blot against the 
house.” 

“All right; I’ll ensconce myself there to-morrow. 
I say, Ken, isn’t young Evson a capital fellow ? how 
well he managed to clear Elgood, didn’t he? I declare 
he taught us all a lesson.” 

“Yes,” said Kenrick; “he’s his brother all over; 
just what Walter was when he came.” 

“What, you say that?” said Whalley, smiling and 
arching his" eyebrows, 


366 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“Indeed I do,” said Kenrick, with some sadness; 
“ I haven’t always thought so, the more’s the pity ; ” 
and he left the room with a sigh. 

After his turn for incarceration in the shoe-cupboard, 
Bliss complained loudly that it wasn’t large enough to 
accommodate him, and that it cramped his long arms 
and legs, to say nothing of the unpleasant vicinity of 
spiders and earwigs! But the others laughing at 
him, told him that, if the experiment was to be of any 
use whatever, they must persevere in it, and Bliss 
allowed himself to be made a victim. For a time 
nothing happened, but they had not to wait very long. 

One day, Kenrick had been mounting guard for 
about half an hour, and was getting very tired, when 
a light and hasty step passed along the passage, and 
into his room. The boy found the study empty, and 
proceeded noiselessly to open Kenrick’s desk, and 
examine the contents. At length he pulled open the 
secret drawer ; it opened with a little click, and there 
lay before him two half-sovereigns and some silver. 
He was a wary fellow, for he scrutinized these all over 
most carefully to see if they were marked, and finding- 
no mark of any kind on them — for it almost required 
a miscroscope to see the tiny scratch between the w.w. 



on the smooth edge of the 
neck — he took out his 


purse, and was proceed- 
ing to drop them 
h into it, when a 
heavy hand was 
■ B l laid upon his shoid- 
Lk|| der , and Kenrick 
illS and Wilton — the 


y detected t h i e f — 
stood face to face. 
The purse dropped 
on the floor. 


For a moment 
they stood silent, 
staring at each 
other, and drawing 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


367 


quick breath. Wilton stood there pale as death, and 
looked up at Kenrick, trembling, and with a frightened 
stare. It was too awful to be so suddenly surprised ; 
to have had an unknown eye-witness standing by 
him all the while that, fancying himself unseen, he 
was in the very act of committing that secret deed 
of sin ; to be arrested, detected, exposed, as the boy 
whose hidden misdoings had been, for so long, a 
source of discomfort, anxiety, and shame. 

“ Yott, Wilton — you , you! you the disturber of the 
house ; you , who have so long been treated by me as 
a friend, and allowed at all times to use my study ; 
you , the foremost to throw the suspicion on others ! ” 
He stopped, breathless, for his indignation was rush- 
ing in too deep and strong a torrent to find vent in 
words. 

“ Oh Kenrick, don’t tell of me.” 

“ Don’t tell of you ! Good heavens ! is that all you 
can find to say ? Not one word of sorrow — not one 
word of shame ? Abandoned, heartless, graceless 
fellow ! ” 

“ I was driven to it, Kenrick, indeed I was. I owed 
money to Dan, and to — to other places, and they 
threatened to tell of me if I didn’t pay. Then Ilarpour 
and those fellows quite cleared me out at cards; 
I believe they did it by cheating. Oh, don’t tell of 
me ! ” 

“ I cannot screen a thief,” was the freezing reply ; 
and the change from flame to ice showed into what 
commotion his feelings had been thrown. 

“ Well then, if it comes to that,” said Wilton, turn- 
ing sullen, “ Til tell of you. It’ll all come out ; re- 
member it was you who first took me to Dan’s, and 
that’s not the only thing I could tell of you. O Ken- 
rick, don’t tell, or it will get us all into trouble.” 

“ This then is the creature whom I have suffered to 
call me friend ! ” said Kenrick ; “for whom I have given 
up some of the best friends in the school ! And this 
is your gratitude! Why, you worm, Wilton, what do 
you take me for ? Do you think that fear of your dis- 
closures will make me hush up twenty thefts? You 


368 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


enlist the whole strength of my conscience against 
you, lest I should seem to screen you for my own sake. 
Faugh ! your very touch sickens me ! — go ! ” 

“ O Kenrick, don’t be so angry ; I didn’t mean to say 
it; I did’t know what I was saying; I am driven into 
a corner by shame and misery. I know I have been a 
mean dog ; but even if you tell of me, don’t crush me 
so with your anger, for indeed, indeed, I have been 
grateful, and have loved you, Kenrick. But oh, don’t 
tell, I implore, I entreat yon, Ken. How little I thought 
that I should have to speak to you like this ! ” 

But Kenrick could only say — “ You the thief ; you , 
the last fellow of all I should have suspected; you 
whom I have called friend, O heavens ! Yes, I know 
that I’ve done you harm by bad example, I know that 
I’ve much to answer for, but at any rate I never taught 
you to be a thief.” 

“ But one thing comes of another, Ken ; it all came 
of my being so much with those brutes, and going to 
Dan’s, it all came of that. I shouldn’t have thought 
myself that I could do it or do half the bad things I 
have done, two months ago. It all came of that ; and 
you used to go with those fellows, Ken, and you went 
with me to Dan’s ; ” and the boy wrung his hands, and 
wept, and flung himself on his knees. “ I must tell 
all, if you tell of me.” 

“ Say that again,” said Kenrick, spurning him scorn- 
fully away, “ say it once again, and I go straight to 
Dr. Lane. Poor worm, you don’t understand me ; you 
don’t seem to have the capability of a high thought in 
you. I tell you that nothing you can say of me shall 
shake my purpose. I am going now.” 

But before he could get his straw hat Wilton had 
clasped him by the knees, and in a voice of agony was 
beseeching him to relent. 

“ It’s all true, Kenrick ; I am base, I know it ; I have 
quenched all honor in me. I won’t say that again, 
but do, for God’s sake, forgive me this once, and not 
tell of me. O Kenrick, have you never had to say for- 
give? Do, do pity me, as you hope to be forgiven; 
don’t ruin me, and give me a bad name ; I am so young, 


ST. WINIFRED " 1 S. 


369 

so young, and have fallen into bad hands from the 
first.” 

He still knelt on the floor, exhausted with the vio- 
lence of his passion, hanging his head upon his breast, 
sobbing as if his heart would break. It was sad to see 
him, a mere child still, who might have been so different, 
long a little reprobate, and now a convicted thief. Ilis 
face bathed in tears, his voice choked with sobs, the 
memory of the past, consciousness that much which he 
said was only too true, touched Ivenrick with compas- 
sion ; the tears rolled down his own face fast, and he 
felt that, though personal fear could not influence him, 
pity would perhaps force him to relent, and wring from 
him in his weakness a reluctant promise not to disclose 
Wilton’s discovered guilt. 

“What can I say to you, Wilton ? you know that I 
have liked you, but I never thought that you could act 
like this.” 

“Nor I, Ken rick, a short time ago; but the devil 
tempted me, and I have never learned to resist.” * 

“ From my very heart I do pity you ; but I fear I 
must tell, I fear it’s my duty, and 1 have neglected so 
many that I dare neglect no more ; though, indeed, I’d 
rather have had any duty but this.” 

Wilton was again clasping his knees and harrowing 
his soul by his wild anguish, imploring to be saved 
from the horror of open shame; and, accustomed as 
Kenrick was to grant anything to this boy, he was 
reduced to great distress. Already his whole manner 
had relented from the loathing and anger he first dis- 
played. He could stand no more at present. 

“O Wilton,” he said, “ you will make me ill if you 
go on like this. I cannot, must not, will not make you 
any promise now ; but I will think what to do.” 

“ I will go,” said Wilton, deeply abashed ; “but be- 
fore I go, promise me one thing, Ken, and that is, even 
if you tell of me, don’t quite cast me off. I shouldn’t 
like to leave and think that I hadn’t left one behind 
me to give me a kind thought sometimes.” 

“ O Ra, Ra, to think that it was you all the while 
who were committing all these thefts 1 ” 

24 


370 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


“ You will cast me off then ? ” said Wilton, in a voice 
broken by penitence ; “ oh ! what a bitter bitter thing 
it is to feel shame like this.” 

“I have felt it too in my time, Raven. Poor, poor 
fellow ! who am I that I should cast you off? No, you 
unhappy child, I may tell of you, but I will not cease 
to be fond of you. Go, Wilton ; I will decide between 
this and tea-time ; — you may come and hear about it 
after tea.” 

He was already outside the door when Kenrick 
called out, “ Wilton, stop ! ” 

“ What is it?” asked Wilton, returning alarmed, for 
conscience had made him a coward. 

“ There ! ” Kenrick only pointed to the purse lying 
on the floor. 

“ Oh, don’t ask me to touch it again, the money is in 
it,” said Wilton, hastily leaving the room. There was 
no acting here ; it was plain that he was penitent — 
plain that he would have given worlds not to have 
been guilty of the sin. 

Very sadly, and with pain and doubt, Kenrick thought 
the matter over, and thus much at least was clear to 
him : first, that the house must be informed, though 
not necessarily the masters or the other boys ; secondly, 
that Wilton must make full and immediate restitution 
to all from whom he had stolen ; thirdly, there could 
be no doubt about it, that Wilton must get himself 
removed at once. On these conditions he thought it 
possible that the matter might be hushed up ; but his 
conscience was uneasy on this point. That unlucky 
threat or hint of Wilton’s that he could and would tell 
some of his wrongdoings, was his great stumbling- 
block ; whenever extreme pity influenced him to screen 
the poor boy from full exposure, he began to ask him- 
self whether this was a mere cowardly alternative sug- 
gested by his own fears. But for this, he would have 
determined at once on the more lenient and merciful 
course; but he had to face this question of self-interest 
very earnestly, nor could he come to any conclusion about 
it until he had determined to take a step in all respects 
worthy of the highest side of his character, by going, 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


371 


in any case, spontaneously to Dr. Lane and laying before 
him a frank confession of past delinquencies, leaving 
him to act as he thought fit. 

Having thus disentangled the question from all its 
personal bearings, he was able to review it on its merits, 
and went to ask the counsel of Whalley, to whom he 
related, in confidence, the whole scene exactly as it had 
occurred. Whalley too, on hearing the alternative con- 
ditions which Ivenrick had planned, was fully inclined 
to spare Wilton as much as possible, but, as neither of 
them felt satisfied to do this on their own authority, 
they sought Power’s advice, and, as he too felt very 
doubtful on the matter, he suggested that they should 
put it to Dr. Lane, without mentioning any names, 
as a hypothetical case , and be finally guided by his 
directions. 

Accordingly Kenrick sought Dr. Lane’s study, and 
laid the entire difficulty before him. He listened atten- 
tively, and said, “ If the boy is so young, and has been, 
as you say, misled, and accepts the very sensible con- 
ditions which you have proposed, I am inclined to think 
that the course you have suggested will be the wisest 
and the kindest one. You have my full authority, 
Kenrick, to arrange it so, and I am happy to tell you 
that you have behaved throughout this matter in an 
honorable and straightforward way.” 

“ I fear, sir, I very little deserve your approval,” said 
Kenrick, with downcast eyes. “ In coming to ask your 
advice in this case, I wanted also to say that I have 
gone so far wrong that I think you ought to be told 
how badly I have behaved. It may be that after what 
I say, you may not think right to allow me to stay here, 
sir; but at any rate I shall have disburdened my own 
conscience by telling you, and shall perhaps feel less 
wretched.” 

“ Kenrick,” said Dr. Lane, “ it was a right and a 
brave thing of you to come here for this purpose. 
Confession is often the first, as it is one of the most 
trying parts of repentance ; and I hail this as a new 
proof of your strong and steady desire to amend. But 
tell me nothing. It may be that I know more than 


872 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


you suppose ; at any rate, I accept the will for the 
deed, and wish to hear no more, unless, indeed, you 
desire to consult me as a clergyman, and as your spir- 
itual adviser, rather than as your master. I do not 
seek this confidence; only if there is anything on your 
conscience of which my advice may help to relieve 
you, I do not forbid you to proceed, and I will give 
you what help I can.” 

“ I think it would relieve me, sir,” said Kenrick ; 
“ I have no father ; I have, I am sorry to say, no friend 
in the school to whom I could speak.” 

“Then sit down, Kenrick, and be assured before- 
hand of my real sympathy.” 

lie sat down, and, twitching nervously at the 
ribbon of his straw hat, told Dr. Lane much of the 
history of the last two years, confessing, above all, how 
badly he had behaved as head of the house, and how 
much harm he feared his example had done. 

Dr. Lane did not attempt to extenuate the heinous- 
ness of his offence, but he pointed out to him what 
were the fruits and the means of repentance. He 
exhorted him to let the sense of his past errors stimu- 
late him to double future exertions. He told him of 
many ways in which, by kindness, by moral courage, 
by Christian principle, he might be a help and a blessing 
to other boys. He earnestly warned him to look to 
God for strength, and to watch and pray lest he should 
enter into temptation. And then promising him a full 
and free oblivion of the past, he knelt down with him 
and offered up from an overflowing heart a few words 
of earnest prayer. 

“ There is nothing like prayer to relieve the heart, 
Kenrick,” said Dr. Lane; “and now, good-niglit, and 
God bless you.” 

With a far lighter heart, with far brighter hopes, 
Kenrick left him, feeling as if a great burden had been 
rolled away, and inwardly blessing the Doctor for his 
comforting kindness. lie found Wilton anxiously 
awaiting his arrival in his study; and thinking that 
their cases in some respects resembled each other, 
he strove not to be like the unforgiving debtor of 


ST. WINIFRED 1 S. 373 

the parable, and spoke to Wilton with great gentle- 
ness. 

“Come here, my poor child; first of all, let me tell 
you that you shall not be reported.” Wilton repaid 
him by a look of grateful joy. 

“ But you must restore all the stolen money, Wilton ; 
the house must be told privately ; and you must leave 
at once.” 

“Well, Kenrick, I ask only one favor,” said Wilton, 
after a short pause. 

“ What is that?” 

“That the house may not be told who stole the 
money until it is nearly time for me to go.” 

“No; it shall be kept close till then, otherwise the 
next fortnight would be too hard for you to bear.” 

“But must I leave?” asked Wilton appealingly. 

“It must be so, Wilton; / shall be sorry for you, 
but it must be settled so. Can you manage it?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Wilton, crying quietly ; “I’ll write 
home and tell my poor mother all about it, and then of 
course she’ll send me some money and take me away 
at once, to save me from being expelled. My poor 
mother, how wretched it will make her! ” 

“ Sin makes us all wretched, Raven, boy. I’m sure 
it makes me wretched enough. And that you mayn’t 
think that fear has had anything to do with our letting 
you off, I must tell you, Wilton, that I’ve been to Dr. 
Lane himself and told him all the many sins I’ve been 
guilty of.” 

“ Have you ? Oh ! I’m so sorry ; it was all through 
me.” 

“Yes ; but I’m not sorry ; I’m all the happier for it, 
Raven. There’s nothing so miserable as undiscovered 
sin ; is there? ” 

“Oh, indeed there isn’t. I’m sure I feel happier 
now in spite of all. No one knows, Ken, how I’ve 
suffered this last fortnight. I’ve been in a perpetual 
fright ; I’ve had fearful dreams ; I’ve felt ready to 
sink for shame ; and I’ve always been fancying that 
fellows suspected me. Do you know, I am almost 
glad you caught me, Ken. I’m very glad it was you 


374 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


and no one else, though it was a horrid ', horrid moment 
when you laid your hand on my shoulder. Yet even 
this isn’t so bad as to have gone on nursing the guilt 
secretly; and not to have been detected.” 

Kenrick was musing ; the boy who could talk like 
that was clearly one who might have been very unlike 
what Wilton then was. 

“ Wilton,” he said, “ come here, and draw your chair 
by mine while I read you a little story.” 

“ O Ken, I’m so grateful that you don’t hate and 

despise me though I am a ” he murmured the word 

“ thief ” with a shudder, and under his breath, as he 
drew up his chair, and Kenrick read to him in a low 
voice the story of Achan, till he came to the verses — 

“ And Achan, the son of Carmi, the son of Zabdi, 
the son of Zerah, of the tribe of Judah, was taken. 

“ And Joshua said, My son , give , I pray thee , glory 
to the Lord God of Israel, and make confession unto 
him; and tell me now what thou hast done ; hide it 
not from me. 

“And Achan answered Joshua, and said, Indeed I 
have sinned against the Lord God of Israel, and thus 
and thus have I done.” 

And there Kenrick stopped, while Wilton said, “My 
son! You see Joshua still called him ‘my son’ in 
spite of all his sin and mischief.” 

“Yes, Raven, boy, but that wasn’t why I read you 
the story which has often struck me. What I wanted 
you to see was this : — The man was detected — the 
thing had been coming, creeping horribly near to him ; 
— first his tribe marked by the fatal lot, then his family, 
then his house, then himself ; and while he’s standing 
there, guilty and detected, in the very midst of that 
crowd who had been defeated because of his baseness, 
and when all their eyes were scowling on him, ancl 
when he knows that he, and his sons and his daughters, 
are going to be burned and stoned — at this very moment 
Joshua says to him, * My son, give, I pray thee, glory to 
the God of Israel .’ You see, he’s to thank God for 
detecting him — to thank God even at that frightful 
moment, and with that frightful death before him 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


875 


as a consequence. One would have thought that it 
wasn’t a matter for much gratitude or jubilation ; but 
you see it was , and so both Joshua and Achan seem to 
have admitted.” 

“ Ah, Kenrick! ” said Wilton sadly, “ if you’d always 
talked to me like that, I shouldn’t be like Achan now.” 

Kenrick said nothing, but as he had received infinite 
comfort from Dr. Lane’s treatment of himself, he took 
Wilton by the hand, and, without saying a word, 
knelt down. Wilton knelt down beside him, and he 
prayed for forgiveness for them both. A few broken, 
confused, uncertain words only, but they were earnest, 
and they came fresh and burning from the heart. 
They were words of true prayer, and the poor, erring, 
hardened little boy rose from his knees too overcome 
to speak. 



KENRICK AND WILTON. 


CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. 

THE RECONCILIATION AND THE LOSS. 

The few remain, the many change and pass, 

Heaven’s light alone remains, earth’s shadows flee ; 

Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 

Stains the white radiance of eternity, 

Until death shiver it to atoms. 

Shelley’s Adonais. 

The termination of Wilton’s sojourn at St. Winifred’s 
soon arrived. As yet none but the two head boys in 
the house knew of his detection. The thefts indeed 
had ceased ; but the name of the offender was still a 
matter of constant surmise, and it was no easy task 
for Wilton — conscious how soon they would be informed 
— to listen to the strong terms of disgust which were 
applied to the yet unknown delinquent. The barriers 
of his conceit, his coolness, his audacity, were all 
broken down ; he was a changed boy ; his manner was 
grave and silent, and he almost hid himself during 
those days in Kenrick’s study, where Kenrick, with 
true kindness, still permitted him to sit. 

Meanwhile it became generally known that he was 
376 



ST. WINIFRED’ S. 


377 


going to leave almost immediately ; and as boys often 
left in this way at the division of the quarter, his de- 
parture, though rather sudden, created no astonish- 
ment, nor had any one as yet the most distant conject- 
ure as to the reasons which led to it. It is not too 
much to say that Wilton was one of the last boys whom 
the rest would have suspected ; they knew indeed that 
he never professed to be guided by any strong moral 
principles; but they thought him an unlikely fellow to 
be guilty of acts which sinned so completely against the 
schoolboy’s artificial code, and which branded him who 
committed them with the charge of acknowledged 
meanness. 

On the very evening of his departure, the house was 
again summoned by a notice from Whalley and Ken- 
rick to meet in the class-room after preparation. They 
came, not knowing for what they were summoned. 
Whalley opened the proceedings by requesting that 
any boy who had of late had money stolen from him 
would stand up. Four or five of them rose, and on 
stating the sums, mostly small, which they had lost, 
immediately received the amount from Whalley, much 
to their surprise, and no less to their content. 

The duty which still remained was far less pleasing 
and more delicate, and it was by Wilton’s express and 
earnest request that it was undertaken by Kenrick and 
not by Whalley. It was a painful moment for both of 
them when Kenrick rose, and very briefly, with all 
the forbearance and gentleness he could command, in- 
formed the house that there was every reason to hope 
that, from that time toward, these thefts, which had 
caused them all so much distress, would cease. The 
offender had been discovered, and he begged them all, 
having confidence that they would grant the request, 
not to deal harshly with him, or think harshly of him. 
The guilty boy had done all that could be done by mak- 
ing full and immediate restitution, so that none of 
them now need remember any injury received at his 
hands, except Elgood, on whom suspicion had been 
unjustly thrown, and whose forgiveness the boy earn- 
estly begged. 


378 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


At this part of his remarks there arose in the deep 
silence a general murmur of “Who is it? who is it?” 

Wilton, trembling all over with agitation and excite- 
ment, was seated beside Kenrick, and had almost 
cowered behind him for very shame ; but now Ken- 
rick stood aside, and laying his hand on Wilton’s head, 
continued, “ lie is one of ourselves, and he is sitting 
here,” while Wilton covered his face with both hands, 
and did not stir. 

An expression of surprise and emotion thrilled over 
all the boys present ; not a word was spoken ; and im- 
mediately after Kenrick said to them, “ He is punished 
enough ; you can understand that this is a terrible 
thing for him. He has made reparation as far as he 
can, and besides this, he is on this account going to 
leave us to-day. I may tell you all, too, that he 
is very, very, very sorry for what he has done, 
and has learned a lesson that he will carry with 
him to his grave. May I assure him that we all for- 
give him freely ? May I tell him that we are grieved 
to part with him, and most of all grieved for this 
which has caused it? May I tell him that, in spite of 
all, he carries with him our warmest wishes and best 
hopes, and 1 that he leaves no enemy behind him here ? ” 

“Yes, yes!” was murmured on all sides, and while 
the sound of Wilton’s crying sounded through the 
room, many of the others were also in tears. For this 
boy was popular ; bad as he had been — and the name 
of lhs sins was legion — there was something about him 
which had endeared him to most of them. Barring 
this last fault, they were generally proud of him; 
there had been a certain generosity about him, a gay 
thoughtlessness, a boyish daring, which won their ad- 
miration. He was a promising cricketer, active, merry, 
full of spirits : before he had been so spoiled by the 
notice of bigger fellows, there was no one who did not 
like him and expect that he would turn out well. 

“ Then my unpleasant task is over,” said Kenrick, 
“and I have no more to say. Oh yes, I had forgotten, 
there was one very important thing I had to say, as 
Whalley reminds me. It is this : you know that the 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


379 


Noelites have kept other secrets before now, not al- 
ways good secrets, I am sorry to say. But will you 
all now keep this honorable secret? Will you not 
mention (for there is no occasion for it) to any others 
in the school who it was that took the money ? The 
matter will very soon be forgotten ; do not let Wilton’s 
sin be bruited through the whole school, so as to give 
him a bad name for life.” 

“ Indeed we won’t, not one of us will tell,” said the 
boys, and they kept the promise admirably afterwards. 

“Then we may all separate. You may bid Wilton 
good-bye now if you wish to do so, for he starts to- 
night, almost at once ; the carriage is waiting for him 
now, and you will have no opportunity of seeing him 
again.” 

They flocked round him and said “ good-bye ” without 
one word of reproach, or one word calculated to wound 
his feelings ; many of them added some sincere expres- 
sions of their good wishes for the future. As for Wil- 
ton himself, he was far too much moved to say much 
to them, but he pressed their hands in silence, only 
speaking to beg Elgood to pardon his unkindness, 
which the little fellow begged him not to think of 
at all. 

Charlie Evson lingered among the last, and spoke to 
him with frank and genial warmth. 

“ How you must hate me, Charlie, for annoying you 
so, and trying to lead you wrong! ” said Wilton peni- 
tently. 

“ Indeed I don’t, Wilton,” said Charlie ; “ I wish you 
weren’t going to leave. I’m sure we should all get on 
better now.” 

“ Don’t think me as bad as I have seemed, Charlie. 
I was ashamed at heart all the time I was trying to 
persuade you to crib and tell lies, and do like other 
fellows. I felt all the while that you were better than 
me.” 

“ Well, good-bye, Wilton. Perhaps we shall meet 
again some day, and be good friends ; and I wish you 
happiness with all my heart.” 

Charlie was the last of them, and Kenrick and Wil- 


380 


ST. WINIFRED’ S. 


ton were left alone. For Wilton’s sake Ivenrick tried 
to show all the cheerfulness he could, as he went with 
him through the now silent and deserted court to the 
gate where the carriage was waiting. 

“ Have you got all your luggage, and everything all 
right, Raven ?” 

“Yes, everything,” he said, taking one last long look 
at the familiar scene. It was dim moonlight; the 
lights twinkled in the studies where the upper boys 
were working, and in the dormitories where the rest 
were now going to bed. The tall trees round the 
building stood quite black against the faintly-lighted 
sky, waving their thinned remnant of yellow leaves in 
the November air. In the stillness you heard every 
slight sound; and the murmur of boys’ voices came 
mingled with the plashing of the mountain stream, 
and the moaning of the low waves as they broke upon 
the shore. A merry laugh rang from one of the dor- 
mitories, jarring painfully on Wilton’s feelings, as he 
stood gazing round in silence. 

He got into the carriage, sighing heavily and grasp- 
ing Ken rick’s hand. 

“ Well, good-bye, Ken ; it must be said at last. May 
I write to you ?” 

“ I wish you would. I shall be so glad to hear of 
you.” 

“And you will answer me, Ken?” 

“ Of course I will, my poor child. Good-bye. God 
bless you.” They stiil lingered for a moment, and 
Kenrick saw in the moonlight that Wilton’s face was 
bathed in tears. 

“All right, sir?” said the driver. 

“Yes,” said Wilton; “ but it’s all wrong, Ken, 1 
think. Good-bye.” He waved his hand, the carriage 
drove off into the darkening night with the little boy 
alone, and Kenrick with a sinking heart strolled back 
to his study. I)o not pry into his feelings, for they 
were very terrible ones, as he sat down to his books 
with the strong conviction that there is nothing so 
good as the steady fulfilment of duty for the driving 
away of heavy thoughts. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


381 


All his time was taken up with working for the 
scholarship. It was a scholarship of ninety pounds a 
year for four years, founded by a princely benefactor 
of the school, but only falling vacant biennially. There 
were other scholarships besides this, but this was by 
far the most valuable one at St. Winifred’s; the ten- 
ure of it was circumscribed by no conditions, and it 
was therefore proportionably desirable that Kenrick, 
who was poor, should obtain it. He had, indeed, hardly 
a chance, as he well knew ; for even if he succeeded in 
beating Walter, he could not expect to beat Power. 
But Power, though a most graceful and finished scholar, 
was not strong in mathematics, and as they counted 
something in the examination, Kenrick’s chief chance 
lay in this, for as a scholar he was by no means to be 
despised ; and with a just reliance on his own abilities, 
he hoped, if fortunate, to make up for being defeated 
in classics, by being considerably ahead in the other 
branches of the examination. How he longed now to 
have at his command the time he had so largely 
wasted! had he but used that aright he might have 
easily disputed the palm in any competition with 
Power himself. Few boys had been gifted with 
stronger intellects or clearer heads than he. But 
though fresh time may be carefully and wisely used, 
the past time that has once been wasted can never be 
recovered or redeemed. 

And as he worked hard day by day the time quickly 
flew by, the scholarship examination took place, and 
the Christmas holidays came on. The result of the 
competition could not be known until the boys returned 
to school. 

Mrs. Kenrick thought that this Christmas was the 
happiest she had known. They spent it, of course, 
very quietly. There were for them none of those 
happy family gatherings and innocent gayeties that 
made the time so bright for others, yet still there was 
something peaceful and something brighter than usual 
about them. Harry’s manner, she thought, was more 
affectionate, more tenderly respectful, than it often 
was. There seemed to be something softer and more 


382 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


lovable about his ways. He bore himself with less 
haughty indifference towards the Fuzbeians; he en- 
tered with more zest into such simple amusements as 
he could invent or procure ; he condescended to play 
quite simply with the curate’s little boys, and seemed 
to be more humble and more contented. She counted 
the days he spent with her as a miser counts his gold; 
and he, when he left her, seemed more sorry to leave, 
and tried to cheer her spirits, and did not make so 
light, as his wont had been, of the grief which the sep- 
aration caused. 

The first event of importance, on the return of the 
boys to school, was the announcement of the scholar- 
ship. The list was read from the last name upwards ; 
Henderson stood sixth, Kenrick third, Evson second, 
Power first. “But,” said Dr. Lane, “Power has com- 
municated to me privately that he does not wish to 
receive the emoluments of the scholarship, he will 
therefore be honorary scholar, while the scholarship 
itself will be held by Evson. ” 

Disappointed at the result, as he undoubtedly was, 
yet Kenrick would have been glad at that moment 
to be able to congratulate Walter. He took it very 
quietly and well. Sorrow and failure had come on 
him so often lately, that he hardly looked for anything 
else; so, when he had heard the result announced, he 
tried to repress every melancholy thought, and walk- 
ing back to his study, resumed his day’s work as though 
nothing had happened. 

And as he sat there, making believe to work, but 
with thoughts which, in spite of himself, sadly wan- 
dered, there was a knock at the door, and to his great 
joy, no less than to his intense surprise, Walter Evson 
entered. 

“ O Evson,” he said, blushing with awkwardness, as 
he remembered how long a time had passed since they 
had exchanged a word ; “ I’m glad you’ve come. Sit 
down. Let me congratulate you.” 

“Thanks, Kenrick,” said Walter, holding out his 
hand; “I thought we had gone on in this way long 
enough. I have never had any ill-feeling for you, and 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


383 


I feel sure now from your manner that you have none 
towards me.” 

“None, Walter, none; I had at one time, but it has 
long ceased : my error has long been explained to me. 
I have done you wrong, Walter, for two years and 
more ; it has been one of my many faults, and the chief 
cause of them all. Can you forgive me?” 

“ Heartily, Ken, if I have anything to forgive. We 
have both been punished enough, I think, in losing the 
happiness which we should have been enjoying if we 
had continued friends.” 

“Ah, Walter, it pains me to think of that irrevo- 
cable past.” 

“But, Ken, I have come now for a definite pur- 
pose,” said Walter. “You’ll promise me not to take 
offence?” 

“Never again, Walter, with you.” 

“Well, then, tell me honestly, was it of any conse- 
quence to you to gain this scholarship, in which, so 
unexpectedly to myself, some accident has placed me 
above you ? ” 

Kenrick reddened slightly, and made no answer, 
while Walter quickly continued — “You know, Ken, 
that I am going to stay here another year ; are you ? ” 

“I’m afraid not; my guardian does not think that 
we can afford it.” 

“ Well, then, Ken, I think I may say, without much 
presumption, that, as I stay here for certain, I may 
safely reckon on getting a scholarship next year. At 
any rate, even if I don’t, my father is quite rich enough 
to bear my university expenses unaided without any 
inconvenience. It would be mere selfishness in me, 
therefore, to retain this scholarship, and I mean to re- 
sign it at once; so that let me now congratulate you 
heartily on being Marsden scholar.” 

“Nay, Walter, I can’t have you make this sacrifice 
for my sake.” 

“You can’t help it, Ken ; for this is a free country,” 
said Walter, smiling, “and I may waive a scholarship 
if I like. But it’s no sacrifice whatever, my dear fel- 
low ; don’t say anything more about it. It gives me 


384 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


ten times the pleasure that you should hold it rather 
than I. So again I congratulate you ; and now, as you 
must have had enough of me, I’ll say good-morning.” 

He rose with a smile to leave the room, but Kenrick, 
seizing him by the hand, exclaimed — 

“O Walter, you heap coals of fire on my head. Am 
I never to receive anything from you but benefits which 
I can never return?” 

“Pooh, Ken, there are no benefits between friends ; 
only let us not be silent and distant friends any longer. 
Power is coming into my study to tea to-night; won’t 
you join us as in old days?” 

“I will, Walter; but can the ghost of old days be 
called to life ? ” 

“Perhaps not; but the young present, which is no 
ghost, shall replace the old past, Ken. At six o’clock, 
mind. Good-bye.” 

“Don’t go yet: do stay a little. It is a greater 
pleasure than I can tell you to see you here again, 
Walter. I want to have a talk with you.” 

“ To make up for two years’ arrears, eh, Ken ? Why, 
what a pretty little study you’ve got ! Isn’t it odd that 
I should never have been in it before? It seems quite 
natural to me to be here somehow. You must come 
and see mine this evening; I flatter myself it equals 
even Power’s, and beats Flip’s in beauty, and looks out 
on the sea : such a jolly view. But you mustn’t see it 
till this evening. I shall make Charlie put it to rights 
in honor of your visit. Charlie beats any fag for neat- 
ness; why did you turn him off, eh? I’ve made him 
my fag now, to keep his hand in.” 

“Let him come back to me now, Walter; I’m sad- 
der and wiser since those days.” 

“ That I will, gladly. I know, too, that he’ll be 
delighted to come. Ah, Wilton’s photograph, I see,” 
said Walter, still looking about him ; “I thought him 
greatly improved before he left.” 

Kenrick was pleased to see that Walter had no sus- 
picion why he left, so that the secret had been kept. 
They talked on very very pleasantly, for they had much 
to say to each other, and Walter had, by his simple, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


385 


easy manner, completely broken the ice, and made 
Ken rick feel at home with him again. Ken rick was 
quite loath to let him go, and kept detaining him so, 
that more than half an hour, which seemed like ten 
minutes, had slipped away before he left. Ken rick 
looked forward eagerly to meet him again in the even- 
ing, with Power, and Henderson, and Eden; their 
meeting would fitly inaugurate his return to the better 
feelings of past days ; — but it was not destined that 
the meeting should take place; nor was it till many 
evenings afterwards that Kenrick sat once more in the 
pleasant society of his old friends. 

When Walter had at last made good his escape, play- 
fully refusing to be imprisoned any longer, Kenrick 
rose and paced the room. He could hardly believe his 
own happiness; it was the most delightful moment he 
had experienced for many a long day; the scholarship, 
so long the object of his hope and ambition, was now 
attained; impossible as it had seemed it was actually 
his; and, at the same moment, the truest friend of his 
boyhood — the friend for whose returning respect and 
affection he so long had yearned — was at last restored 
to him. 

With an overflowing heart he sat down to write to 
his mother, and communicate the good news that he 
was reconciled to Walter, and that Power and Walter 
had resigned the scholarship in his favor. He had 
never felt in happier spirits than just then; — and then, 
even at the same moment, the cup of sincere and in- 
nocent joy, so long untasted, was, with one blow, 
dashed away from his lips. 

For at that moment the post came in, and one of his 
fags, humming a lively tune, came running with a let- 
ter to his door. 

“ A letter for you, Kenrick,” the boy said, throwing 
it carelessly on the table, and taking up his merry song 
as he left the room. But Ken rick’s eye were riveted 
on the letter : it was edged with the deeepest black, 
and bore the Fuzby postmark. For a time he sat 
stupidly staring at it: he dared not open it. 

At length he made an effort, and tore it open. It 

25 


386 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


was a rude, blurred scrawl from their old servant, tell- 
ing him that his mother had died the day before. A 
brief note enclosed in this, from the curate of the place, 
said, “ It is quite true, my poor boy. Your mother died 
very suddenly of spasms in the heart. God’s ways 
are not as our ways. I have written to tell your 
guardian, and he will no doubt meet you here.” 

Kenrick remained stupefied, unable to think, almost 
unable to comprehend. He was roused to his senses 
by the entrance of his fag to remove his breakfast 
things, which still lay on the table ; and with a vague 
longing for some comfort and sympathy, he sent the 
boy to Walter with the message that Kenrick wanted 
him. 

Walter came at once, and Kenrick, not trusting his 
voice to speak, pushed over to him the letter which con- 
tained the fatal news. In such a case human consola- 
tion cannot reach the sorrow. It passes like the idle 
wind over the wounded heart. All that could be done 
by words, and looks, and acts of sympathy Walter did ; 
and then went to arrange for Ken rick’s immediate 
journey, not returning till he came to tell him that a 
carriage was waiting to take him to the train. 

That evening Kenrick reached the house of death, 
which was still as death itself. The old faithful ser- 
vant opened the door to his knock, and using her apron 
to wipe her eyes, which were red with long weeping, 
she exclaimed — 

“O Master Harry, Master Harry, she’s gone. She 
had been reading and praying in her room, and then 
she came down to me quite bright and cheerful, when 
the spasms took her, and I helped her to bed, and she 
died.” 

Harry flung down his hat in the hall, and rushed up- 
stairs to his mother’s room ; but when he had opened 
the door, he stood awe-struck and motionless ; — for he 
was alone in the presence of the dead. 

The light of winter sunset was streaming over her, 
whose life had been a winter day. Never even in life 
had he seen her so lovely, so beautiful with the beauty 
of an angel, as now with the smiling, never-broken 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


387 


calm of death upon her. Over the pure, pale face, from 
which every wrinkle made by care and sorrow had 
vanished, streamed the last cold radiance of evening, 
illuminating the peaceful smile, and seeming to linger 
lovingly as it lit up strange glories in the hair, smoothed 
in soft bands over her brow. There she lay with her 
hands folded, as though in prayer, upon her quiet 
breast ; and the fitful fever of life had passed away. 
Dead — with the smile of heaven upon her lips, which 
should never leave them more ! 

Hers had been a hard, mysterious life. In all the 
sweet bloom of her youthful beauty she had left her 
home, not, indeed, without the sanction, but against 
the wishes of her relatives, to brave trial and poverty 
with the man she loved. IIow bitter that poverty, how 
severe, how unexpected those trials had proved to be, 
we have seen already; and then, still young, as though 
she were meant to tread with her tender feet the whole 
thorny round of human sorrow, she had been left a 
widow with an only son. And during the eight years 
of her widowed loneliness, her relatives had neglected 
with cold pride both her and her orphan boy ; even 
that orphan boy, in the midst of all his love for her, 
had by his pride and waywardness caused her many 
an anxious hour and many an aching heart, yet she 
clung to him with an affection whose yearning depth 
no tongue can utter. And now, still young, she had 
died suddenly, and left him on the threshold of danger- 
ous youth almost without a friend in the wide world ; 
had passed, with a silence which could never more be 
broken, into the eternal world ; had left him, whom 
she loved with such intensity of unspeakable affection, 
without a word, without a look, without a sign of fare- 
well. She had passed away in a moment to the far-off 
untroubled shore, whence waving hands cannot be 
seen, and no sound of farewell voices heard. How 
must that life expand in the unconceived glory of that 
new dawn — the life which on earth so little sunshine 
visited ! 

She was one of the most sweet, the most pure, the most 
unselfish, the most beautifully blameless of all God’s 


388 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


children ; and she had lived in hardship, in neglect, in 
anxiety, in calumny ; she had lived among those mean 
and wretched villagers, and an angel was among them, 
and they knew it not; she had tasted no other drink 
but the bitter waters of affliction ; no hope had bright- 
ened, no love sustained, her earthly course. And now 
her young orphan son, his heart dead within him for 
anguish, his conscience tortured by remorse, was kneel- 
ing in that agony which no weak words can paint, was 
kneeling for the last time, too late, beside her corpse. 

Truly life is a mystery, which the mind of man can- 
not fathom till the glory of eternal truth enlighten it! 


THE MOTION DISPLACED HIS STRAW HAT. 



CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

THE STUPOR BROKEN. 


y 0v 6v/j,ov Karibov, 'Karov avdp&Kov akztivov. 

Hom. II. vi. 202. 

The white stone, unfractured, ranks as most precious ; 

The blue lily, unblemished, emits the finest fragrance ; 

The heart, when it is harassed, finds no place of rest ; 

The mind, in the midst of bitterness, thinks only of grief. 

The Sorrows of Han : a Chinese Tragedy. 

After these days Ken rick returned to St. Winifred’s, 
as he supposed, for the last time. His guardian, a stiff, 
unsympathizing man, had informed him that as his 
mother’s annuity peased with her life, there was very 
little left to support him. The sale, however, of the 
house at Fuzby, and the scholarship which he had just 
won, would serve to maintain him for a few years, 
meanwhile his guardian would endeavor to secure 
for him a place in some merchant’s office, where 
gradually he would be able to earn a livelihood. 

It was a very different life from that which this fine, 

389 


390 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


clever, high-spirited boy had imagined for himself, and 
he looked forward to the prospects with settled de- 
spair. But he seemed now to regard himself as a vic- 
tim of destiny, regretting nothing, and opposing noth- 
ing, and caring for nothing. He told Walter with bit- 
ter exaggeration “that he must indeed thank him 
forgiving up the scholarship, as he supposed that it had 
saved him from starvation. His guardian, who had a 
family of his own, didn't seem to care a straw for him; 
and he had no friend in the world besides.” 

And as, for days and weeks, he brooded over these 
gloomy thoughts and sad memories, he fell into a weary, 
broken, aimless kind of life. Many tried to comfort 
him, but they could not reach his sorrow; in their 
several ways his school friends did all they could to 
cheer him up, but they all failed. He grew moody, 
solitary, silent. Walter often sought him out, and 
talked in his lively, cheerful, happy strain ; but even 
his society Kenrick seemed to shun. He was in that 
morbid, unhealthy state when to meet others inspires 
a positive shrinking of mind. He seemed to have no 
pleasure except in shutting himself up in his study, 
and in taking long lonely walks. He performed his 
house duties mechanically, and by routine ; when he 
read the lessons in chapel, his voice sounded as though 
it came from afar, like the voice of one who dreamed ; 
he sat with his books before him for long hours, and 
made no progress, hardly knowing the page on which 
he was employed. In school, he sat listlessly playing 
with his pen, taking no notes, seeming as though he 
heard nothing, and was scarcely aware of what was 
going on. Ilis friends could not guess what would 
come of it, but they grew afraid for him when they saw 
him mope thus inconsolably, and pine away without 
respite, till his eyes grew heavy, and his face pale and 
thin. He had changed all his ways ; he seemed to have 
altered his very nature ; he played no games, took no 
interest in anything, and dropped all his old pursuits. 
His work was quite spiritless, and he grew so absent 
that he forgot the commonest occupation of every day 
— living as in a waking sleep. 


391 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 

Power and Walter, in talking of him, often wondered 
whether it was the uncertainty of his future prospects 
which had thus affected him ; and in the full belief that 
this must have something to do with his morbid mel- 
ancholy, Power mentioned the matter to Dr. Lane as 
soon as he had the opportunity. 

Dr. Lane had observed, with much pity, the depres- 
sion which had fastened on Kenrick like a disease. He 
was not surprised to see him come back deeply affected ; 
but if “ the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,” 
its sorrows are usually short and transient, and he 
looked upon it as unnatural that Kenrick’s grief should 
seem thus incurable, and that one so young should thus 
refuse to be comforted. It was not long before he in- 
troduced the subject, while talking to Power after look- 
ing over his composition. 

“Kenrick has just been here, Power,” he said; “it 
pains me to see him so sadly altered. I can hardly 
get him to speak a word ; all things seem equally in- 
different to him, and his eyes look to me as though they 
were always ready to overflow with tears. What can 
we manage to do for him ? Would not a little cheerful 
society brighten him up? We had him here the other 
day, but he did not speak once the whole evening. 
Can’t even Henderson get him to smile somehow ?” 

“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Power. “Henderson and 
Evson and I have all tried, but he seems to avoid seeing 
any one. It makes him ill at ease apparently. I am 
afraid, for one thing, that he is vexing himself about not 
being allowed to return, and about being sent into a 
merchant’s office, which he detests.” 

“If that is all, there can be no difficulty about it,” said 
the Doctor ; “ we have often kept deserving boys here, 
when funds failed, and I can easily assure his guardian, 
without his knowing of it, that the expense need not 
for a moment stand in the way of his return.” 

These generous acts are common at St. Winifred’s, 
for she is indeed an alma mater to all her children ; and 
since Kenrick had confided this particular sorrow to 
Walter , Walter undertook to remove- it by telling him 
that Dr. Lane would persuade his guardian to let him 


392 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


return. Kenrick appeared glad of the news, as though 
it brought him a little relief, but it made no long 
change in his present ways. 

Nor even did a still further piece of good fortune, 
when his guardian wrote and told him that, on condi- 
tion of Jus-being sent to the university , an unknown an- 
onymous friend had placed at his disposal £100 a year, 
to be continued until such time as he was able to main- 
tain himself ; and that this generous gift would of 
course permit of his receiving the advantage of an 
Oxford training, and obviate the necessity of his en- 
tering an office, by clearing for him the way to one of 
the learned professions. This news stirred him up a 
little, and for a time — but not for long. He looked 
upon it all as destiny : he could not guess, he hardly 
tried to surmise, who the unknown friend could be. 
Nor did he know till years afterwards that the aid 
was given by the good and wealthy Sir Lawrence 
Power, at his son’s earnest and generous request. For 
Power did this kind deed by stealth, and mentioned 
it to no one, not even to Walter; and Kenrick little 
thought when he told the good news to Power, and 
received his kind congratulations, that Power had 
known of it before he did himself. But still, in spite 
of all, Kenrick seemed sick at heart, and his life crept 
on in a sluggish course, like a river that loses its 
bright stream in the desert, and all whose silver run- 
nels are choked up with dust and sand. 

The fact was, that the blows of punishment had 
fallen on him so fast and so heavily that he felt crushed 
to the very earth. The expulsion of the reprobates 
with whom he had consorted, his degradation and cen- 
sure, Wilton’s theft and removal, the violent tension 
and revulsion of feeling caused by his awakened con- 
science, his confession, and the gnawing sense of shame, 
the failure of his ambition, and then his mother’s death 
coming as the awful climax of the calamities he had 
undergone, and followed by the cold, unfeeling harsh- 
ness of his guardian, and the damping of his hopes— 
all these thing's had broken the boy’s spirit utterly. 
Disgrace, and sorrow, and bereavement, and the stings 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


393 


of remorse, and the suffering of punishment — the for- 
feiture of a guilty past, and the gloom of a lonely 
future — these things unmanned him, bowed him down, 
poisoned his tranquillity of mind, unhinged every en- 
ergy of his soul, seemed to dry up the very springs of 
life. The hand of man could not rouse him from the 
stupor caused by the chastisements of God. 

But the rousing came at last, and in due time ; and 
it all came from a very little matter — so slight a matter 
as a little puff of seaward air. A trivial accident, you 
will say ; yes, one of those very trivial accidents that 
so often affect the destinies of a lifetime, and 

Shape our ends 

Rough-hew them how we will. 

Kenrick, as usual, was walking along the top of the 
cliffs, alone — restless, aimless, and miserable — “ moon- 
ing,” as the boys would have called it — unable even to 
analyze his own thoughts, conscious only that it was 
folly in him to nurse this long-continued and hopeless 
melancholy, yet quite incapable of making the one 
strong effort which would have enabled him to throw 
it off. And in this mood he sat down near the cliff, 
thinking of nothing, but watching, with idle guesses 
as to their destination and history, the few vessels 
that passed by on the horizon. The evening was draw- 
ing in, cold and windy ; and suddenly remembering 
that he must be back by tea-time, he rose up to return. 
The motion displaced his straw hat, and the next 
moment the breeze had carried it a little way over the 
edge of the cliff, where it was caught in a low bush of 
tamarisk. It rested but a few feet below him, and the 
chalky front of the cliff was sufficiently rough to ad- 
mit of his descent. He climbed to it, and had just 
succeeded in disengaging it with his foot, when, before 
he had time to seize it, it again fell, and rolled down 
some thirty feet. Kenrick, finding that he had been 
able to get down with tolerable ease, determined to 
continue his descent in order to secure it. It never 
occurred to him that the hat was of no great import- 


394 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


ance, and that it would have been infinitely less trouble 
to walk home without it, and buy a new one, than to 
run the risk and encounter the trouble of his climb. 
However, he did manage to reach it, and put it on with 
some satisfaction. But, as he was beginning to re- 
mount, a considerable mass of chalk crumbled away 
under his feet, and made him cling on with both hands 
to avoid being precipitated. He had been able to get 
down well enough, because, if the chalk slipped, he 
glided on safely with it, but in climbing up lie was 
obliged to press his feet strongly downwards in order 
to gain his spring; and every time he did this, he 
found that the chalk kept giving way, exhausting him 
with futile efforts, filling his shoes with dust and peb- 
bles, slipping into his clothes, and blinding his eyes. 
Every person who has climbed at all, whether in the 
Alps or elsewhere, knows that it is easy enough to get 
down places which it is almost impossible to mount 
again ; and Kenrick, after many attempts, found that 
he had been most imprudent, and becoming seriously 
alarmed, was forced, when he had quite tired himself 
with fruitless exertions and had once or twice nearly 
fallen, to give up the attempt altogether, and do his 
best to secure another way of escape. 

This was to climb down quite to the bottom of the 
cliff, and make his way, as best he could, over rocks 
and shingle round the bluff which shut in one side of 
the little bay on which he stood, and along the narrow 
line of beach, to St. Winifred’s Head. This was pos- 
sible sometimes, and he fancied that the tide was suf- 
ficiently far out to enable him to do it now. At any 
rate herein lay, so far as he saw, his only chance of 
safety. 

Down the cliff then he climbed once more, and though 
it was some ninety feet high he found no difficulty in 
doing this, with care, till he came to a place where its 
surface was precipitous for a height of some ten feet, 
worn smooth by the beating of the waves. Holding 
with his hands to the edge, lie let himself fall down 
this height, and found himself standing, a little shaken 
though unhurt, in a small pebbly bay or indentation 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


395 


of the shore formed by a curve in the line of cliffs, 
with a series of headlands and precipices trending 
away on one side far to his right, and with the Ness 
of St. Winifred’s reaching out to his left. Once round 
that headland he would be safe, and indeed if he once 
got beyond the little pebbly inlet where lie stood, he 
hoped to find some place where he might scale the 
rocks, and so cross the promontory and get home. 

There was no time to be lost, and lie .ran with all 
his speed over the loose stones towards the bluff, let- 
ting the unlucky straw hat drop on the shore, as it had 
no string, and it impeded him to be obliged to hold it 
on with one hand. Reaching the end of the shingle, 
he stumbled with difficulty over some scattered rocks 
slimy with ooze and sea-grass, hoping with intense 
hope that when he rounded the projection of cliff he 
would see a line of beach, narrow indeed but still wide 
enough to allow of his running along it before the tide 
had come in, and reaching some part of St. Winifred’s 
Head which he might be able to scale by means of a 
sheep-path, or with the help of hands and knees. Very 
quickly he reached the corner, and hardly dared to 
look ; but when he did look, a glance showed him that 
but slender hope was left. At one spot the tide had 
already reached the foot of the cliffs ; but if he could 
get to that spot while the water was yet sufficiently 
shallow to allow him to run through it, he trusted that 
he might yet be saved. The place was far off, but he 
ran and ran ; and ever as he ran the place seemed to 
get farther and farther, and his knees failed him for 
fatigue, as he sank at every step in the noisy and 
yielding mixture of sand and pebbles. 

Reader, have you ever run a race with the sea ? If 
not, accept the testimony of one who has had to do it 
more than once, that it is a very painful and exciting 
race. I ran it once successfully with one who, though 
we then escaped, has since been overtaken and swal- 
lowed up by the great dark waves of that other sea, 
whose tides are ever advancing upon us, and must 
sooner or later absorb us all — the great dark waves of 
Death. But to take your life in your hand, and run, 


396 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


and to know that the sea is gaining upon you, and that, 
however great the speed with which fear wings your 
feet, your subtle hundred-handed enemy is intercept- 
ing you with its many deep inlets, and does not bate 
an instant’s speed, or withhold itself a hair’s breadth 
for all your danger — is an awful thing to feel. And 
then to see that it has intercepted you is worst of 
all ; — it is a moment not to be forgotten. And all this 
was what Kenrick had to undergo. He ran until he 
panted for breath, and stumbled for very weariness; — 
but he was too late. A broad sheet of water now 
bathed the bases of the cliff, and the waves, as though 
angry with the opposing breeze, were leaping up with 
a frantic hiss, and deluging the rocks with sheets of 
spray and foam. 

Experience had taught him with what speed and fury 
on that dangerous coast the treacherous tide came in. 
There was not a moment to spare, and as he flew back 
to the small shelter of the pebbly cove, the water was 
already gliding close to him, and stretching its arms 
like a hungry medusa round the seaweed-matted 
lumps of scattered rock over which he trod. 

His face wetted with the salt dew, his brown hair 
scattered on the rising wind, he flew rather than ran 
once more to the place where he had descended, to re- 
new the wild attempt to scale the cliff which seemed 
to afford him the only shadow of a hope. Yet a mere 
glance might have been enough to show him that this 
hope was vain. Both at that spot, and as far as he 
could see, the sheer base of the cliff offered him no 
place where it was possible to rest a foot, no place 
where he could mount three feet above the shingle. 
But his scrutiny brought home to him another appall- 
ing fact — namely, that the sea-mark, where the highest 
tide fringed its barriers with a triumphal wreath of 
hanging sea-weed, and below which no foliage grew, 
was high up upon the cliff, far above his head. 

It was too late to curse his rashness and folly, nor 
would he even try to face his frightful situation till he 
had thought of every conceivable means by which to 
escape. A friend of mine had, and I suppose still has, 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


397 


a pen-and-ink sketch which made one shudder to look 
at it. All that you see is a long sea-wall, apparently 
the side of some stone pier, so drawn as to give the 
impression of great height, and the top of it not visible 
in the picture ; by the side of this ripples and plashes 
a long dark reach of sea- water, lazily waving the weeds 
which it has planted in the crevices of stone, and ex- 
tending, like the wall itself farther than you can guess. 
The only living thing in the picture is a single, spent, 
shaggy dog ; its paws rested for a moment on a sort 
of hollow in the wall, and half its dripping body emer- 
gent from the dark water. It is staring up with a look 
of despondent exhaustion, yet mute appeal. The 
sketch powerfully recalls and typifies the exact posi- 
tion in which poor Kenrick now found himself placed; 
— before him the hungry, angry, darkening sea, behind 
him the inaccessible bastions of forbidding cliff'. It is 
a horrible predicament, and those can most thrillingly 
appreciate it who, like the author, have been in it them- 
selves. 

There was yet one thing, and one thing only, to be 
tried, and it was truly the refuge of desperation. 
Kenrick was an excellent swimmer ; many a time in 
bathing at St. Winifred’s even when he was a little boy, 
he had struck out boldly far into the bay, even as far as 
the huge tumbling red buoy, that spent its restless life 
in “ever climbing with the climbing wave.” If he 
could swim for pleasure, could he not swim for life ? It 
was true that the swim before him was, beyond all com- 
parison, farther and more hazardous than he had ever 
dreamt of. But swimming is an art which inspires 
extraordinary confidence ; it makes us fancy that 
drowning is impossible to us, because we cannot im- 
agine ourselves so fatigued as to fail in keeping above 
water. Kenrick knew that the attempt was only one 
to be undertaken at dire extremity ; but that extremity 
had now arrived, and it was literally the last chance 
that lay between him and — what he would not think 
of yet. 

So, in the wintry air, with the strong wind blowing 
keenly, and the red gleam of sunset already beginning 


398 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


to fail, he flung off his clothes on the damp beach, and 
as one who rushes on a forlorn hope in the teeth of an 
enemy, he ran down the rough uneven shore, hardly 
noticing how much it hurt his feet, and plunged boldly 
into the hideous yeast of seething waves. The cold 
made him shiver and shiver in every limb ; his teeth 
chattered ; he was afraid of cramp ; the slimy sea- 
weeds that his feet touched, the tangled and rotting 
strings of sea-twine that waved about his legs, sent a 
strong shudder through him ; and there was a sick 
clammy feeling about the frothy spume through which 
he had to plunge. But when he had once ploughed his 
way through all this, and was fairly out of his depth, 
the exercise warmed him, and he rose with a swimmer’s 
triumphant motion over the yielding waves. On and 
on he swam, thinking only of that, not looking before 
him ; but when he began to feel quite tired, and did look, 
he saw that he was not nearly half way to the head- 
land. He saw, too, how the breakers were lashing and 
fighting with the iron shore which he was madly striv- 
ing to reach. Even if he could swim so far, — and he 
now felt that he could not, — how could he ever land 
at such a spot ? Would not one of those billows toss 
him up on its playful spray, and dash him as it dashed 
its own unpitied offspring, dead upon the rocks ? 
And as this conviction dawned on him, withering all 
his energy of heart, the wind wailed over him, the 
water bubbled in his ears, and the sea-mew, flapping 
as it flew past him, uttered above his head its plain- 
tive scream. Ilis heart sank within him. With a 
quick motion he turned in the water, and with arms 
wearied out he swam back again, as for dear life, to- 
wards the little landing-place which alone divided him 
from instant death ; struggling on heavily, with limbs 
so weary that he could barely move them through the 
waves, whose increasing swell often broke around his 
head. Already the tide had reached the spot where 
he had let his straw hat drop on the beach ; the sea 
was scornfully playing with it, tossingit up and down, 
whirling it round and round like a feather ; the wind 
blew it to the sea, and the sea, receiving no gifts from 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


399 


an enemy, flung it back again ; but the wind carried 
the day, and while Kenrick was wringing the brine 
out of his dripping hair, and huddling his clothes again 
over his wet, benumbed, and aching limbs, he saw the 
straw hat fairly launched, and floating away over the 
waves. 

And then it was that, as the vision of Sudden Death 
glared out before his eyes, and the Horror of it leapt 
upon him, that a scream — a loud, wild, echoing scream, 
which sounded strange in that lonely place, and rose 
above the rude song that the wind was now singing, — 
broke from his blanched lips. And another, and 
another, and then silence ; for Kenrick was now crouch- 
ing at the cliff’s foot farthest off from the swelling 
flood, with his eyes fixed motionless in a wild stare on its 
advancing line of foam. He was conjuring up before 
his imagination the time when those waves should 
have reached him ; should have swept him away from 
the shelter of the shore, or risen above his lips ; should 
have forced him again to struggle and swim, until his 
strength, already impaired by hunger, and thirst, and 
cold, and fatigue, should have failed him altogether, 
and he would sink, and the water gurgle wildly in his 
ears, and stop his breath, — and all would be still. And 
when he had pictured this scene to himself with a vivid- 
ness which made him experience all its agony, for a time 
his mind flew back through all the faultful past up to 
that very day ; memory lighted her lantern, and threw 
its blaze on every dark corner, on every hidden recess, 
every forgotten nook, — left no spot unsearched, unillu- 
minated with sudden flash — all his past sins were 
before him, words, looks, thoughts, everything. As 
when a man descends with a light in his diving-bell 
into the heaving sea, the strange monsters of the deep, 
attracted by the unknown glimmer, throng and wallow 
terribly around him, so did uncouth thoughts and 
forgotten sins welter in fearful multitudes round this 
light of memory in the deep sea of that poor human 
soul. And finally, as though in demon voices, came 
this message, whispered to him, shouted to him taunt- 
ingly, rising and falling with maddening alternation 


400 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


on the rising and falling of the wind, — “You have 
been wasting your life, moodily abandoning yourself 
to idle misery, neglecting your duties, letting your 
talents rust, — God will take from you the life you know 
not how to user And then, as though in answer to 
this another voice, low, soft, sweet, that his heart knew 
well, — another voice filling the interspaces of the 
others with unseen music, whispered to him soothingly, 
— “ It shall he given you again, use it better, use it 
better ; awake, use it better, it shall be given you again .” 

Those three wild shrieks of his had been heard ; he 
did not know it, but they had been heard. The whole 
coast was in general so lonely that you could usually 
pace it for miles without meeting a single human being, 
and it never even occurred to him that someone might 
pass that way. But it so happened that the boister- 
ous weather of the last few days had cast away a 
schooner at a place some five miles from St. Winifred’s, 
and Walter Evson had walked with Charlie to see the 
wreck, and was returning along the cliff. As they 
passed the spot where Kenrick was, they had been 
first startled and then horrified by those shrieks, and 
while they stood listening another came to their ears, 
more piercing, more heartrending than the rest. 

“ Good heavens, there must be some one down there ! ” 
exclaimed Walter. 

“ Why, how could any one have got there ? ” asked 
Charlie. 

“ Well, but didn’t you hear some one scream ? ” 

“Yes, several times. O Walter, do look here.” 
Charlie pointed to the traces on the cliff that some one 
had descended there. 

“Who could have wanted to get down there , I 
wonder ? and for what possible purpose ? ” 

“ Do you see any one, Walter ? ” 

“No, I don’t; there’s nothing but the sea,” — for 
Kenrick, crouching under the cliff, was hidden from 
sight, and now the tide had come up so far that, from 
the summit, none of the shingle was visible, — “ but 
what’s that ? ” 

“Why, Walter, itfs a straw hat ; it must be one of 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 401 

our fellows clown there ; I see the ribbon distinctly, 
dark blue and white twisted together.” 

“ Dark blue and ichite ! why, then, it must be some 
one in the football eleven : Charlie, it must be Ken- 
rick ! Heavens, what can have happened ? ” 

“ Ivenrick ! ” they both shouted at the top of their 
voices. But the cliff was high, and the wind, momently 
rising to a blast, swept away their shouts, and although 
Kenrick might have heard them distinctly under ordi- 
nary circumstances, they now only mingled with, and 
gave new form and body to, the wild madness which 
terror was beginning to kindle in his brain. So they 
shouted, and no answer came. 

“No answer comes, Charlie ; but there’s some one 
down there, as sure as we are here,” said Walter. 
Charlie had already begun to try and descend the face 
of the cliff. “ Stop, stop, Charlie,” said Walter, seiz- 
ing him and dragging him up again, “you mustn’t try 
that ; — nay, Charlie, you really must not. If it’s pos- 
sible 1 will.” He tried, but three minutes showed 
him that, however practicable a descent might be, an 
ascent afterwards would be wholly beyond his power. 
Besides, if he did descend, what could he do ? Clearly 
nothing ; and with another plan in view, he with diffi- 
culty reached his former position. 

“ Nothing to be done that way, Charlie.” At that 
moment another cry came, for Kenrick, in a momen- 
tary lull of the wind had fancied that he had heard 
sounds and voices other than those of his perturbed 
and agitated fancy. “ Ha ! you heard that ? ” said 
Walter, and he shouted again, but no sound was 
returned. 

“We must fly to St. Winifred’s, Charlie; there’s a 
boy down on the shore, beyond a doubt. You stay 
behind if you like, for you can’t run as fast as me. I’m 
afraid, though, it’s not the least good. St. Winifred’s 
is three miles from here, and long before I’ve got help 
and come three miles back, it’s clear that no one can 
be alive down there ; still we must try,” and he was 
starting when Charlie seized his arm. 

“Don’t you remember, Walter, the hut at Bryce’s 
26 


402 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


cove ? there’s an old boat there, and it’s a mile and a 
half nearer than St. Win’s.” 

“ Capital boy, Charlie,” said Walter ; “ how good of 
you to think of it it’s the very thing. Come.” 

They flew along at full speed, Walter taking Charlie’s 
hand, and saying, “ Never mind stretching your legs 
for once, even if you are tired. How well you run ! 
we shall be there in no time.” 

They gained the cove, flew down the steep narrow 
path, and reached the hut door. Their summons was 
only answered by the furious barking of a dog. No one 
was in. 

“Never mind; there’s the boat; we must take 
French leave ; ” and Walter springing down, hastily 
unmoored it. 

“ Wall ! what a horrid old tub, and it wants bailing, 
Walter.” 

“ We can’t stay for that, Charlie boy ; it’s a good 
thing that Semlyn Lake has taught us both to row, 
isn’t it ? ” 

“ Oh yes ; don’t you wish we had the little ‘ Pearl ’ 
here now, Walter? Wouldn’t we make it fly, instead 
of this cranky old wretch ? ” 

“ Well, we must fancy that this is the ‘ Pearl,’ and 
this Semyln Lake,” said Walter, wading up to the 
knees to launch the boat, and springing in when he 
had given it the final shove. 

They were excellent rowers, but Charlie had never 
tried his skill in a sea like that, and was timid, for 
which there was every excuse. 

“How very rough it is, Walter,” he said, as the 
boat tossed up and down like an egg-shell on the high 
waves. 

“ Keep up your heart, Charlie, and row steadily ; 
don’t be afraid.” 

“No, Walter, I won’t, as you’re with me; but — 
Walter?” 

« Well?” 

“ It’ll be dark in half an hour.” 

“ Not quite, and we shall be there by that time ; we 
needn’t go far out, and the tide’s with us.” So the 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


403 


two brave brothers rowed steadily oil, with only 
one more remark from Charlie, ushered in by the 
word — 

“ Walter! ” 

“Anything more to frighten me with, Charlie?” he 
answered cheerily ; “ you shan’t succeed.” 

“Well, Walter,” he answered, with a little touch of 
shame, “ I was only going to say that, if you look, 
you’ll see that your oar’s been broken, and is only 
spliced together.” 

“I’ve seen it all along, Charlie, and will use the oar 
gingerly ; and now, Charlie, I see you’re a little 
frightened, my boy. I’m goingtobrace you up. Rest 
on your oar a minute.” 

lie did so. “ Now turn round and look” 

He pointed with his finger to a dark figure, now dis- 
tinctly seen, cowering low at the white cliff’s foot. 

“O Walter, I’m ready; I won’t say a word more;” 
and he leant to his oar, and plied it like a man. 

It is a pretty, a delightful thing in idle summer- 
time to lie at full length upon the beach on some am- 
brosial summer evening, when a glow floats over the 
water, whose calm surface is tenderly rippled with 
gold and blue. And while the children play beside 
you, dabbling and paddling in the wavelets, and dig- 
ging up the ridges of yellow sand, which take the 
print of their pattering footsteps, nothing is more 
pleasant than to let the transparent stream of the 
quiet tide plash musically with its light and motion to 
your very feet ; nothing more pleasant than to listen 
to its silken murmurs, and to watch it flow on with 
its beneficent coolness, and take possession of the 
shore. But it is a very different thing when there 
rises behind you a wall of frowning cliff, precipitous, 
inaccessible, affording no hope of refuge; and when, 
for the golden calm of summer eventide, you have the 
cheerless drawing in of a loud and stormy February 
night ; and when you have the furious hissing violence 
of rock-and-wind-struck breakers for the violet-col- 
ored margin of rippling waves, — knowing that the 
wind is wailing forth your requiem, and that, witli the 


404 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


fall of every breaker, unseen hands are ringing your 
knell of death. 

The boy crouched there, his face white as the cliffs 
above him, his undried limbs almost powerless for 
cold, and his clothes wetted through and through with 
spray, — pushing aside every moment the dripping locks 
of hair which the wind scattered over his forehead, 
that he might look with hollow staring eyes on the 
Death which was advancing towards him, wrapping 
him already in its huge mantle-folds, calling aloud to 
him, beckoning him, freezing him to the very bone 
with the touch of its icy hand. 

And the brutal tide coming on, according to the 
pitiless, irreversible certainty of the fixed laws that 
governed it, — coming on like a huge wallowing mon- 
ster, dumb and blind,— knew not, and recked not, of 
the young life that quivered on the verge of its ad- 
vance, — that it was about to devour remorselessly, 
with no wrath to satiate, with no hunger to appease. 
None the less for the boy’s presence, unregardful of 
his growing horror and wild suspense, it continued its 
uncouth play, — leaping about the rocks, springing 
upwards and stretching high hands to pluck down the 
cliffs, seeming to laugh as it fell back shattered and 
exhausted, but unsubdued ; — charging up sometimes 
like a herd of wild white horses, bounding one over 
the other, shaking their foamy manes ; hissing some- 
times like a brood of huge sea-serpents, as it insinuated 
its winding streams among the boulders of the shore. 

It might have seemed to be in sport with him as it 
ran first up to his feet, and playfully splashed him, as 
a bather might splash a person on the shore from 
head to heel, and then ran back again for a moment, 
and then up again a little farther, till, as he sat on the 
extreme line of the shore and with his back huddled 
up close against the cliff, it first wetted the soles of 
his feet — and then was over his shoes — then ankle- 
deep — then knee-deep — then to the waist. Already it 
seemed to buoy him up ; — he knew that in a few mo- 
ments more he would be forced to swim, and the last 
struggle would commence. 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


405 


ttis brain was dull, his senses blunted, his mind half 
idiotic, when first (for his eyes had been fixed down- 
wards on the growing, encroaching waters) he caught 
a glimpse, in the failing daylight, of the black outline 
of a boat, not twenty yards from him, and caught the 
sound of its plashing oars. He stared eagerly at it, 
and just as it came beside him he lost all his strength, 
uttered a faint cry, and slipped down fainting into the 
waves. 


SHARKSFIN LIGHTHOUSE. 



CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH. 

ON THE DARK SEA. 

ttcuSes S’ sper/ioig rj/jbEvoL, ylavurjv ala 
fiotUoiGl TlEVKa'lVOVTEQ , k^TOW o\ 

Eur. Cycl. 16. 


Boys 

Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain, 

Made white with foam the green and purple sea. 

Shelley. 

In a moment Walter’s strong arms had caught him, 
and lifted him tenderly into the boat. While the 
waves tossed them up and down they placed him at 
full length as comfortably as they could, — which was 
not very comfortably, — and though his clothes were 
streaming with salt water, and his fainting fit still 
continued they began at once to row home. For, by 
this time, it was dim twilight ; the wind was blowing 
great guns,* the clouds were full of dark wrath, and the 
stormy billows rose higher and higher. There was no 
time to spare, and it would be as much as they could 
do to provide for their own safety. The tide was al- 
ready bumping them against the cliff at the place 
406 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


407 


where, just in time, they had rescued Kenrick, and, in 
order to get themselves fairly off, Walter, forgetting 
for a moment, pushed out his oar and pressed against 
the cliff. The damaged oar was weak enough already, 
and instantly Walter saw that his vigorous shove had 
weakened and displaced the old splicing of the blade. 
Charlie too observed it, but neither of them spoke a 
word ; on the contrary, the little boy was at his place, 
oar in rollock, and immediately smote lightly and in 
good time the surface of the water, splashed it into 
white foam, and pulled with gallant strokes. 

They made but little way ; the waves pitched them 
so high and dropped them with such a heavy fall be- 
tween their rolling troughs, that rowing became almost 
impossible, and the miserable old boat shipped quanti- 
ties of water. At last, after a stronger pull than usual, 
Walter’s Oar creaked, snapped, and gave way, flinging 
him on his back. The loosened twine with which it had 
been spliced was half rotten with age; it broke in 
several places, the oar blade fell off and floated away, — 
and Walter was left holding in both hands a broken 
and futile stump. 

“ My God, it is all over with us ! ” was the wild cry 
that the sudden and awful misfortune wrung from his 
lips ; while Charlie, shipping his now useless oar, 
clung round his brother’s neck and cried aloud. The 
three boys — one of them faint, exhausted, and speech- 
less — were in an unsafe and oarless boat on the open 
tempestuous sea, weltering hopelessly at the cruel 
mercy of winds and waves; a current was sweeping 
them they knew not whither, and the wind, howling 
like a hurricane, was driving them farther and farther 
away from land. 

“ O Walter, I can’t die, I can’t die yet ; and not out 
on this black sea, away from every one ! ” 

“From every one but God, Charlie; and I am with 
you. Cheer up, little brother; God will not desert us.” 

“ O Walter, pray to God for you and me and Kenrick ; 
pray to Him for life.” 

“ We will both pray, Charlie ; ” and folding his arms 
round him — for now that the rowing was over and 


408 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


there was nothing left to do, the little boy was fright- 
ened at the increasing gloom — Walter, calm even at 
that wild moment, with the calm of a clear conscience 
and a noble heart, poured forth his soul in words of 
supplication, while Charlie, his voice half stifled with 
tears, sobbed out a terrified response and echo to his 
prayer. 

And after the prayer Walter’s heart was lightened 
and his spirit strengthened, till he felt ready in him- 
self to meet anything and brave any fate; but his 
soul ached with pity for his little brother and for his 
friend. It was his duty to cheer them both and do 
what could be done. Kenrick had so far recovered as 
to move and say a few words, and the brothers were 
by his side in a moment. 

“ You have saved my life, Walter, when I had given 
it up ; saved it, I hope, to some purpose this time,” he 
whispered, unconscious as yet of his position, and he 
dragged up his feet out of the pool of water in which 
they were lying at the bottom of the boat. But grad- 
ually the situation dawned upon him. “How is it 
you’re not rowing?” he asked ; “are you tired? let me 
try, I think I could manage.” 

“It would be of no use, Ken,” said Walter ; “I mean 
that we can’t row,” and he pointed to the broken oar. 

“Then you have saved me at the risk, perhaps at 
the cost, of your own lives. O you noble, noble 
Walter ! ” said Kenrick, the tears gushing from his 
eyes. “ How awfully terrible this is ! I seem to be 
snatched from death to death. Life and death are 
battling for me to-night ; yes, eternal life and death 
too,” he whispered in Walter’s ear, catching him by 
the wrist. “ All this danger is for me, Walter, and 
for my sin. I am like Jonah in the ship ; I have been 
buffeting death away for hours, but he has been sent 
for me, he must do his mission. I see that I cannot 
escape, but, O God, I hope that you will escape, Walter. 
Your life and Charlie’s must not be spilt for mine.” 

It was barely light enough to see his face, but it 
looked wild and haggard in the ragged gleams of moon- 
light which the black flitting clouds suffered to break 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


409 


forth at intervals ; and his words, after this, were too 
incoherent to understand. Walter saw that the long 
intensity of fear had rendered him half delirious and 
not master of himself. Soon after he sank into a 
stupor, half sleep, half exhaustion, and even the lurch- 
ing of the boat did not rouse him any more. 

“ Walter, lie’s asleep, or — oh ! is he dead, Walter?” 
asked Charlie, in horror. 

“ No, no, Charlie ; there, put your hand upon his 
heart. You see it beats; he is only exhausted, and in 
a sort of swoon.” 

“But he will be pitched over, Walter.” 

“Then I’ll show you what we’ll do, Charlie. We 
must make the best of every tiling.” Walter lifted up 
the useless rudder, pulled out the string of it to lash 
Kenrick safely to the stern bench by which he lay, 
and took off his own coat in order to cover him up, 
that he might sleep ; and then, anxious above all things 
to relieve Charlie’s terror, the unselfish boy, thinking 
only of others, sat beside him on the centre bench, 
and encirled him with a protecting arm. And, as 
though to increase their misery, the cold rain began 
to fall in torrents. 

“O Walter, it’s so cold, and wet, and stormy, and 
pitch dark. I’m frightened, Walter. I try not to be, 
but I can’t help it. Take me on your knees and pray 
for us again.” 

Walter took him on his knees, and laid his head 
against his own breast, and folded him in his arms, 
and wiped his tears ; and the little boy’s sobs ceased as 
Walter’s voice rose once more in a strain of intense 
prayer. 

“ Walter, God must grant that prayer; I’m sure He 
must; He can’t reject it,” said Charlie simply. 

“ He will answer it in the way best for us, Charlie, 
whatever that is.” 

“But shall we die?” asked his brother again, with a 
cold shudder at the word. 

“Remember what you said just now, Charlie, and be 
brave. But even if we were to die, could we die bet- 
ter, little brother, than in doing our duty, and trying 


410 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


to save dear Ken’s life ? It isn’t such a very terrible 
thing, Charlie, after all. We must all die sometime, 
you know, and boys have died as young and younger 
than you or me.” 

“Ay, but not like this, Walter; out in these icy, 
black, horrid waters.” 

“ Yes, they have indeed, Charlie ; — little friendless 
sailor-boys, dashed on far-away rocks that splintered 
their ships to atoms, or swallowed up when their ves- 
sels foundered in great typhoons, thousands of miles 
away from home and England, in unknown seas ; — lit- 
tle boys like you, Charlie ; and they have died bravely, 
too, though no living soul was near them to hear their 
cries, and nothing to mark their graves, but the bubble 
for one minute while they sank.” 

“ Have they, Walter ? ” 

“ Ay, many and many a time they have ; and the 
same God who called for their lives gave them courage 
and strength to die, as He will give us if there is 
need.” 

There was a pause, and then Charlie said, “ Talk to 
me, Walter; it prevents my listening to the flapping 
and plunging of the boat, and all the other noises. 
Walter, I think — 1 think we shall die.” 

“ Courage, brother, I have hope yet ; and if we die 
we will die like this together — I will not let you go. 
Our bodies shall be washed ashore together — not sep- 
arated, Charlie, even in death.” 

“You have been a dear, dear good brother to me. 
How I love you, Walter! ” and as he pressed yet closer 
to him, he said more bravely, “ What hope have you 
then, Walter?” 

“ Look up, Charlie ; you see that light?” 

“Yes ; what is it? ” 

“ Sharksfin Lighthouse ; don’t you remember seeing 
it sometimes at night foom St. Win’s? Yes; and 
those lights twinkling far off are St. Win’s. Those 
must be the school lights ; and those long windows you 
can just see are the chapel windows. They are in 
chapel now, or the lights wouldn’t be there. Perhaps 
some of our friends — Power, perhaps, and Eden — are 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 411 

praying for us ; they must have missed us since tea- 
time.” 

“ How I wish we were with them ! ” 

“Perhaps we may be again; and all the wiser and 
better in heart and life for this solemn time, Charlie. 
If we are but carried by this wind and current within 
hearing of the lighthouse ! ” 

The Sharksfin Lighthouse is built on a sharp high 
rock two miles out at sea. I have watched it from 
Bleak Point on a bright, warm summer’s clay, when 
the promontory around me was all ablaze with purple 
heather and golden gorse, and there was not breeze 
enough to shake the Aving of the butterfly as it rested 
on the bluebell, or disturb the honey-laden bee as it 
murmured in the thyme. Yet even then the waters 
were seething and boiling in never-ending tumult 
about those hideous sunken rocks ; and the ocean all 
around was hoary as with the neezings of a thousand 
leviathans floundering in its monstrous depths. You 
may guess what they are on a wild February night; — 
how, in the mighty rush of the Atlantic, the torn 
breakers beat about them with tremendous rage, till 
the Avhole sea is in angry motion like some demon 
caldron that seethes over roaring flame. 

Drifting along, or rather flung and battered about 
on the current, they passed within near sight of the 
lighthouse, and they might have thanked God that 
they passed no nearer, for to have passed nearer would 
have been certain death. The white waves dashed over 
it, enveloped its tall strong pillar that buffeted them 
back, like a noble will in the midst of calumny and 
persecution ; they fell back hissing and discomfited, 
and could not dim its silver or quench its flame ; but 
it glowed on with steady lustre in the midst of them — 
flung its victorious path of splendor over their raging 
motion, warned from the sunken reef the weary mariner, 
and looked forth untroubled Avith its broad, calm eye 
into the madness and fury of the tempest-haunted 
night. 

Through this broad track of light the boat Avas 
driven, and Walter shouted at the top of his voice 


412 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


with all liis remaining strength. The three men in 
the lighthouse fancied indeed, as they acknowledged 
afterwards, that they had heard some shouts ; but 
strange, mysterious, inarticulate voices are often bore 
upon the wind, and haunt always the lonely wastes of 
foamy sea. The lighthouse men had often heard these 
unexplained wailings and weird screams. Many a 
time they had looked out, and been so continually de- 
ceived, that unless human accents were unmistakable 
and well defined, they attributed these sounds to other 
agencies, or to the secret phenomena of the worst 
storms. And even if they had heard, what could they 
have done, or how have launched their boat when the 
billows were running mountain-high about their per- 
ilous rock ? 

Charlie had been quiet for a long time, his face 
hidden on Walter’s shoulder ; but he had seen the glare 
which the light threw across the waves, and had ob- 
served that they had gradually been driven through 
it into the blackness again, and he asked, ‘ Have we 
passed the lighthouse, Walter?” 

“ We have.” 

“ Oh, I am so hungry and burning with thirst ? Oh, 
what shall we do ? ” 

“ Try not to think about it, Charlie ; — a little fasting 
won’t hurt us much.” 

Another long pause, during which they clung more 
closely to each other, and their hearts beat side by 
side, and then Charlie said, in a barely articulate 
whisper — 

“ Walter!” 

“ I know what you are going to say, Charlie.” 

“ The water in the boat is nearly up to my knees.” 

“We have shipped a great deal, you know.” 

“Yes; and besides that ” 

“Yes, it is true; there is a leak. Do you mind my 
putting you down and trying what I can do to bail the 
water out ? ” 

“O Walter, don’t put me off your knee;— don’t let 
go of me.” 

“ Yery well, Charlie; it wouldn’t be of much use.” 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


413 


“ Good Gocl ! ” cried the little boy, in a paroxysm 
of agony, “ we are sinking — we are foundering! ” 

They wound their arms round each other, and Walter 
said, “It is even so, my darling brother. Death is 
near, but God is with us ; and if it is death, then death 
means rest and heaven. Good-bye, Charlie, good-bye; 
we will be close together till the end.” 



CHAPTER THE FORTIETH. 

WHAT THE SEA GATE UP. 

The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play. 

Tennyson. 

Anxiety reigned at St. Winifred’s succeeded by con- 
sternation and intense grief. Little was thought of 
the absence of the three boys at tea-time, but when 
it came to chapel-tiine and bed-time and they had not 
yet appeared and when next morning it was found that 
they had not been heard of during the night, every one 
became seriously alarmed, and all the neighboring 
country was searched for intelligence. 

The place on the cliff where Ken rick had descended 
was observed, but as the traces showed that only one 
boy had gone down there, the discovery, so far from 
explaining matters, only rendered them more inexpli- 
414 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


415 


cable. Additional light was thrown on the subject by 
the disappearance of Bryce’s boat, and the worst fears 
seemed to be confirmed by his information that it was 
a rickety old concern, only intended to paddle in 
smooth weather close to the shore. But what earthly 
reason could have induced three boys to venture out 
in such a tub on so wild a night ? That they did it 
for pleasure was inconceivable, the more so as rowing 
was strictly forbidden ; and as no other reason could 
be suggested, all conjecture was at fault. 

The fishermen went out in their smacks, but found 
no traces, and gained no tidings of the missing boys ; 
and all through that weary and anxious day the belief 
that they had been lost at sea gained ground. Almost 
all day Power, and Eden, and Henderson had been 
gazing out to sea, or wandering on the shore, in the 
vain hope of seeing them come rowing across the bay ; 
but all the sailors on the shore affirmed that if they 
had gone out in an open boat, and particularly in Bryce’s 
boat, it was an utter impossibility that they could have 
outlived the tempest of the preceding night. 

At last, towards the evening, the sea gave up, not 
indeed her dead, but what was accepted as a positive 
proof of their wretched fate. Henderson, who was in 
a fever of excitement, which Power vainly strove to 
allay, was walking with him and Eden, who was hardly 
less troubled, along the beach, when he caught sight of 
something floating along, rising and falling on the dumb 
sullen swell of the advancing tide. He thought and 
declared at first, with a start of horror, that it was the 
light hair of a drowned boy; but they very soon saw 
that it could not be that, and dashing in waist-deep 
after it, Henderson brought out the torn and battered, 
fragments of a straw hat. The ribbon, of dark blue 
and white, though soaked and discolored, still served 
to identify it as having belonged to a St. Winifred’s 
boy ; and, carefully examining the flannel lining, they 
saw on a piece of linen sewn upon it — only too legible 
still — the name “ II. Kenrick.” Nor was this all they 
found. The discovery had quickened their search, and 
soon afterwards Power, with a sudden suppressed cry, 


416 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


pointed to something black, lying, with a dreadful look 
about it, at a far part of the sand. Again their hearts 
grew cold, and running up to it they all recognized, 
with fresh horror and despair, the coat which Walter 
had last worn. They recognized it, but besides this, to 
place the matter beyond a doubt, his name was marked 
on the inside of the sleeve. In one of the pockets was 
his school note-book, with all the notes he had taken, 
and the playful caricatures which here and there he 
had scribbled over the pages ; and in the other, stained 
with the salt water, and tearing at every touch, were 
the letters he had last received. 

All the next day the doubt was growing into cer- 
tainty. Mr. and Mrs. Evson were summoned from 
Semlyn, and came with feelings that cannot be de- 
picted. Power gave to Mrs. Evson the coat he had 
picked up, and he and Henderson hardly ever left the 
parents of their friends, doing all they could to cheer 
their spirits and support in them the hopes they could 
hardly feel themselves. To this day Mrs. Evson 
cherishes that coat as a dear and sacred relic, which 
reminds her of the mercy which sustained her during 
the first great agony which she had endured in her 
happy life. Power kept poor Kenrick’s hat, for no 
relation of his was there to claim it. 

Another day dawned, and settled grief and gloom 
fell on all alike at St. Winifred’s, — the boys, the 
masters, the inhabitants. The sight of Mr. and Mrs. 
Evson’s speechless anguish oppressed all hearts, and 
by this time hope seemed quenched forever. For now 
one boy only — though young hearts are slow to give 
up hope — had refused to believe the worst. It was 
Eden. He persisted that the three boys must have 
been picked up. The belief had come upon him sud- 
denly, and grown upon him he knew not how, but he 
was sure of it ; and therefore his society brought most 
relief and comfort to the torn heart of the mother. 
“ What made him so confident?” she asked. He did 
not know ; he had seen it, or dreamt it, or felt it some- 
how, only he felt unalterably convinced that so it was. 
“ They will come back, dear Mrs. Evson ; they will 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


417 


come back, you will see,” was his repeated asseveration ; 
and oppressed as her heart was with doubt and fear, 
she was never weary of those words. 

And on the fourth day, while Mr. Evson was absent, 
having gone to make inquiries in London of all the ships 
which had passed by St. Winifred’s on that day, Eden, 
radiant with joy, rushed into Dr. Lane’s drawing-room 
where Mrs. Evson was sitting, and utterly regardless 
of les convenances , burst out with the exclamation, “ O 
Mrs. Evson, it is true, it is true what I always told you. 
Didn’t I say that I knew it ? They have been picked up.” 

“ Hush, my boy ; steady,” whispered Mrs. Lane ; 
“ you should have delivered the message less suddenly. 
The revulsion of feeling from sorrow to joy will be 
too much for her.” 

“ O Eden, tell me,” said the mother faintly, recalling 
her senses, bewildered by the shock of intelligence ; 
“ are you certain ? Oh, where are my boys ? ” 

“ You will see them soon,” he said very gently ; and 
the next moment, to confirm his words, the door again 
flew open, and Charlie Evson was wrapped in his 
mother’s arms, and strained to her heart, and covered 
with her kisses, and his bright young face bathed in 
her tears of gratitude and joy. 

“ Charlie, darling Charlie, where is Walter?” were 
her first words. 

“ What, don’t you know me then, mother ; and have 
you no kiss to spare for me?” said the playful voice of 
a boy enveloped in a sailor’s blue shell jacket ; and 
then it was Walter’s turn to feel in that long embrace 
what is the agonizing fondness of a mother’s love. 

Kenrick was looking on a little sadly,— not envious, 
but made sorrowful by memory. But the next moment 
Walter, taking him by the hand, had introduced him 
to his mother, and she kissed him too on the cheek. 
“ Your name is so familiar to me, Kenrick,” she said ; 
“ and you have shared their dangers.” 

“ Walter has twice saved my life, Mrs. Evson,” he 
answered ; “ and this time, I trust, he has saved it in 
more senses than one.” 

The boys’ story was soon told. Just as their boat 
27 


418 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


was beginning to sink, and the bitterness of death 
seemed over, Walter caught sight of the lights of a ship, 
and saw her huge dark outline looming not far from 
them, and towering above the waves. Instantly he 
and Charlie had shouted with all the frantic energy of 
reviving hope. By God’s mercy their shouts had been 
heard ; in spite of the risk and difficulty caused by the 
turbulence of the night, the ship hove-to, the long boat 
was manned, and the amazed sailors had rescued them 
not ten minutes before their wretched boat swirled 
round and sank to the bottom. 

Nothing could exceed the care and tenderness with 
which the sailors and the good captain of the Morning 
Star had treated them. The genial warmth of the 
captain’s cabin, the food and wine of which they stood 
so much in need, the rest and quiet, and a long, long 
sleep, continued for nearly twenty-four hours, had 
recruited their failing strength, and restored them to 
perfect health. Past St. Winifred’s Bay extends for 
miles and miles a long range of iron-bound coast, and 
this circumstance, together with the violence of the 
breeze blowing away from land, had prevented the 
captain from having any opportunity of putting them 
ashore until the morning of this day, when, with kind- 
hearted liberality, he had also supplied them with the 
money requisite to pay their way to St. Winifred’s. 

“ You can’t think how jolly it was on board, mother,” 
said Charlie. “ I’ve learnt all about ships, and it was 
such fun ; and they were all as kind to us as possible.” 

“ You mustn’t suppose we didn’t think of you, 
mother dearest,” said Walter, “and how anxious you 
would be; but we felt sure you would believe that 
some ship had picked us up.” 

“Yes, Walter; and to taste this joy is worth any 
past sorrow,” said his mother. “ You must thank 
your friend-Eden for mainly keeping up my spirits, for 
he was almost the only person who maintained that 
you were still alive.” 

“And now, Mrs. Evson,” said Power, “you must 
spare them for ten minutes, for the masters and all the 
school are impatient to see and congratulate them.” 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


419 


The whole story had spread among the boys in ten 
minutes, and they were again proud to recognize Wal- 
ter’s chivalrous daring. When he appeared in the 
blue jacket with which Captain Peters had replaced 
the loss of his coat, with Kenrick’s arm in his, and 
holding Charlie’s hand, cheer after cheer broke from 
the assembled boys ; and finally, unable to repress 
their joy and enthusiasm, they lifted the three on their 
shoulders and chaired them all round the court. 

You may suppose that it was a joyful dinner-party 
that evening at Dr. Lane’s. Mr. Evson, as they had 
conjectured, had heard of his sons’ safety in London 
from the captain of the Morning Star , to whom he had 
tendered his warmest and most grateful thanks, and 
to whom, before leaving London, he had presented, in 
testimony of his gratitude, an exquisite chronometer. 
Returning to St. Winifred’s he found his two boys 
seated happily in the drawing-room awaiting him, each 
with their mother’s hand in theirs, and in the company 
of their best boy-friends. Walter was still in the blue 
shell jacket, which became him well, and which neither 
Mrs. Lane nor the boys would suffer him to change. 
It was indeed an evening never to be forgotten, and' 
hardly less joyous and rememberable was the grand 
breakfast which the Sixth gave to Walter and Kenrick 
in memory of the event, and to which, by special ex- 
ception, little Charlie was also invited. 

Rejoicings are good, but they were saved for greater 
and better things. These three young boys had stood 
face to face with sudden death. Death, as it were, had 
laid his hand on their shoulders, had taken them by 
the hair and looked upon them, and bade them com- 
mune with themselves ; and, when he released them 
from that stern cold grasp, it gave to their lives an 
awful reality. It did not quench, indeed, their natural 
mirthfulness, but it filled them with strong purposes 
and high thoughts. Kenrick returned to St. Wini- 
fred’s a changed boy ; long-continued terror had quite 
altered the expression of his countenance, but, while 
this effect soon wore off, the moral effects produced in 
him were happily permanent, fie began a life in 


420 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


earnest; for him there was no more listlessness, or 
moody fits of sorrow, or bursts of wayward self-indulg- 
ence. He became strenuous, diligent, modest, earnest, 
kind; he too, like Walter and Charlie, began his career 
“ from strength to strength .” Under him, and Power, 
and Walter, and others, whom their influence had 
formed or who had been moulded by the tradition they 
had left behind them, St. Winifred’s flourished more 
and more, and added new honors and benefits to its 
old and famous name. At the end of that half-year 
Power left, but not until he had won the Balliol scholar- 
ship and carried off nearly all the prizes in the school. 
Walter succeeded him as head of the school ; and he 
and Kenrick (who was restored to his old place on the 
list) worked heart and soul together for the good of it. 
In those days it was indeed in a happy and prosperous 
state — renowned and honored without, well governed 
and high-toned within. Dr. Lane felt and acknowl- 
edged that much of this success was due to the example 
and to the vigor of these head boys. Power, when 
he left, was beloved and distinguished ; Walter and 
Kenrick trod in his steps. To the boundless delight 
of the school they too carried off in one year the high- 
est open scholarship at each University; and when 
they also left, they had been as successful as Power, 
and were, if possible, even more universally beloved. 
Whalley carried on for another year the high tradi- 
tion, and, in due time, Charlie also attained the head 
place in the school, and so behaved as to identify his 
name and Walter’s with some of its happiest and wisest 
institutions for many years. 



I/ENVOI. 

Is not to-day enough ? why do I peer 

Into the darkness of the day to come ? 

Is not to-morrow e’en as yesterday ? 

Relics of Shelley. 

May I not leave them here ? Where could I leave 
them better than on this marble threshold of a promis- 
ing boyhood ; still happy and noble in the freshness of 
their feelings, the brightness of their hopes, the en- 
thusiasm of their thoughts ? Need I say a word of 
after-life, with the fading of its earlier visions, and the 
coldness and hardness of its ways? I should like to 
linger with them here ; to shake hands here in fare- 
well, and leave them as the boys I knew. They are 
living still, and are happy and highly honored in the 
world. In their case “ the boy has been father to the 
man ; ” and the reader who has understood and sym- 
pathized with them in their early life will not ask me 
to draw aside the curtain, even for a moment, to show 
them as they appeared when a few more summers had 
seen them grow to the full stature of their manhood. 

I said that they were living still ; but it is not so 
with all of them. 


421 


/ 


422 ST. WINIFRED'S. 

Charlie Evson alone, of the little band who have been 
amongst the number of our friends at St. Winifred’s, 
— alone, though the youngest of them all, — is now dead. 
He died a violent death. Filled with a missionary 
spirit, and desirous, like Edward Irving, of “ some- 
thing more -high and lieroical in religion than this age 
affecteth,” he joined a mission to one of the great 
groups of Pacific Islands. And there, many a time, in 
the evening, after a day spent in teaching the natives 
how to plant their fields and build their houses, he 
would gather them round him in the twilight, and, 
while the cool wind wandered over his hair and brow, 
and shook overhead the graceful plumes of the cocoa- 
palm, he would talk to them in low sweet tones — until 
the fireflies were twinkling in the thicket and the stars 
stole out one after another in their silent myriads — of 
one who came from the highest Heaven to redeem 
them from savagery and degradation, and to make 
them holy as He was holy, and pure as He was pure. 
He was eminently successful ; but when he had planted 
in some islands the first seeds of a fruitful Christian- 
ity, he sailed to other reefs, still carrying the everlast- 
ing gospel in his hands. One evening as the little 
missionory ship, which Charlie himself had built, drew 
near the land, they saw that the natives were drawn 
up in a threatening attitude on the beach. Trusting to 
conciliate them by kindness and by presents, the young 
missionary, taking with him a few glittering trifles 
to attract their notice, proceeded with a small band of 
followers towards the shore. At first the natives 
seemed inclined to receive them well, but suddenly, 
by the wild impulse to which barbarians are so liable, 
one of the savages pierced a sailor with his spear. 
Evson, by an effort of strength, wrenched the weapon 
out of his hand and told his men to take up the wounded 
sailor and retreat. This they effected in safety, for 
the islanders were struck and awed by the young Eng- 
lishman’s high bearing and firm attitude ; and his eye 
fixed quietly upon them kept them back. He was 
himself the last to step into the boat, and, as he turned 
to do so, one of the wretches struck him on the head 


ST. WINIFRED' S. 


423 


with his accursed club. He fell stunned and bleeding 
upon the beach, and in an instant was despatched by 
the spears and clubs of a hundred savages, while the 
boat’s crew barely escaped with their lives, and the 
little mission vessel, spreading all her sails, could with 
difficulty elude the pursuit of the canoes which swarmed 
out of the creeks to give her chase. The corpse lay 
bleeding upon a nameless strand, and the soft fair hair 
that a mother’s hand had fondled and a mother’s lips 
had kissed, dangled as a trophy at the girdle of a can- 
nibal. Thus it was that Charlie died ; and a marble 
tablet in Semlyn Church, ornamented With the most 
delicate and exquisite sculpture, records his tragic fate, 
and stands as a monument of his parents’ tender love. 
As a boy he had shown a martyr’s dauntless spirit; as 
a man he was suffered to win the rare and high glory 
of a martyr’s crown. 

Of Walter, and Henderson, and Sir Reginald Power 
— for Power has succeeded only too early to his father’s 
title and estates — T need say no more. Their days 
from youth to maturity were linked together by a 
natural progress in all things charitable, and great, and 
good. They did not belie their early promise. The 
breeze of a happy life bore them gently onward, and 
they cast no anchor in its widening stream. They were 
brave and manly and honorable boys, and they grew 
up into high-minded and honorable men. 

I do not wish you to suppose that they had not their 
own bitter trials to suffer, or that they were exempt in 
any degree from our common sorrows. In that turbu- 
lent and restless period of life when the passions are 
strong and the heart wild and wilful and full of pride, 
while, at the same time, the judgment is often weak 
and the thoughts are immature and crude, they had (as 
we all have) to purchase wholesome experience at the 
price of suffering ; to remember with shame some fol- 
lies, and mourn over some mistakes. In saying this, I 
only say that they were not faultless ; which of us is ? 
But, at the same time, I may fairly say that we do not 
often meet with nobler or manlier boys and youths than 
these; that the errors which they committed they 


424 


ST. WINIFRED'S. 


humbly endeavored by patience and carefulness to 
amend; that they used their talents well and wisely, 
striving to live in love and charity with all around them ; 
that above all they kept the fear of God before their 
eyes, and never lost the freshness and geniality of early 
years, but kept 

The young lamb’s heart amid the full grown flocks ; 

— kept the heart of boyhood taken up and purified in 
the powers of manhood. And this is the reason why 
the eye that s'ees them loves them, and the tongue that 
speaks of them blesses them. And when the end comes 
to them which comes to all ; when — as though a child 
should trample out the sparks from a piece of paper — 
death comes upon them and tramples out for ever their 
joys and sorrows, their hopes and fears ; then, sure I 
am, that those who mourn for them, that those who 
cherish their memory and regret their loss, will neither 
be insincere nor few, and that they themselves will 
meet calmly and gladly that Great Shadow, waiting 
and looking with sure though humble hope to a better 
and less transient life ; to a sinless and unstained world ; 
to the meeting with long-lost friends ; to the rest 

WHICH REMAINETH FOR THE PEOPLE OF GOD. 

And here, gentle reader, let us bid them all farewell. 













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